


The Hard Road Home

by goingbadly



Series: Twist and Growl [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Twist and Growl Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/pseuds/goingbadly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second part to Twist and Growl, The Hard Road Home picks up where Twist and Growl left off - Sebastian Moran is back from the war and Jim Moriarty is his former lover. However, things are very different around the house. There's a tall stranger with a fetish for scarves and ohmygod it is impossible to write this summary without so many spoilers</p><p>Basically if you read Twist and Growl and were like "yes more but I would also like AU John and Sherlock yes and what happened to that sneaky fucker Mycroft" this is the place for you</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Little Birdy/Back Together

**Author's Note:**

> If you are here from Twist and Growl looking for the happy ending but want to avoid all mentions of Sherlock and John or the shipping thereof, I direct you to /the first chapter only./ After that I'll only give warnings about that pairing appearing if enough people want to avoid Johnlock.
> 
> (Apparently avoiding Johnlock is a thing??????????????? That must be difficult peeps I'm so sorry)

 

Sebastian gets the text two weeks later.

He’s lying in bed, sprawled out across the sheets of some abandoned flat that he’d broken into after he walked out of Jim’s house. He’s not really asleep, but he’s not doing anything, either. With his head cradled in one hand, he’s staring at the ceiling like he expects it to give him some meaning.

The couple who owns the flat are gone on vacation. Pictures of a nondescript working man and his wife had littered the mantle when Sebastian forced the window; smiling, kissing each other, giggling with the sheer joy of their affection. Sebastian smashed the lot, just to be petty, then went to bed and stayed there.

**I have a lovely murder set up for you. Address following. Why don’t you work out some of that frustration? – Jim Moriarty X**

He stares at his phone for a moment, unseeing, before the words finally click. His phone buzzes again while he’s gapped out. A residential address not far from where he’s squatting, and then nothing. No explanation, no apology. Sebastian wants to be sick. After a long pause, there’s finally a follow-up.

**You can tell me aaaaaaaaaaalll about it when you’re done. -JM**

_Do you still expect me to work for you?_

He rolls out of bed, making a face at the stale, unhealthy smell of his sweat on the sheets. Sebastian’s phone gets tossed unceremoniously into a fold of the blankets before he heads for the sanctuary of hot water in the bathroom. He showers thoroughly, shaves his face with the kind of razor that has six blades for comfort and costs more than ten packs of disposables. When he wipes the steam off the mirror he’s half-surprised by how he looks.

_Pale. Losing muscle tone._

_I look like a fucking invalid._

He stares at his own reflection for a beat, then turns away. In any place he’d lived before, Sebastian would have weapons to gather. He’d have guns on the counters, knives tucked in drawers. His own clothing.

_Jim at the table._

But this place doesn’t have any of the trademarks of home. Sebastian steals clean clothes from the closet of a happy man and tucks an army-issue knife in the back pocket of too-baggy slacks simply because it’s the only lethal thing in the place.

Going on the job doesn’t seem like a decision at all. In the back of his mind Sebastian knows he’s going mad, lying in bed with nothing to do and no will to change his complete lethargy. There’s no inside force to push him forward. No one is going to come looking for him. His family have more or less abandoned him, the men in his regiment can’t stand him, and he doesn’t really know where to start looking for another life.

_I’ve expected to be Jim Moriarty’s right-hand man since I was seventeen and without it, I’m drowning._

_You are the only option I’ve ever had._

It barely takes Sebastian half an hour from receiving the text to leave.

\---------------

The house he’s sent to is disturbingly picturesque, just the right amount of ugly to look charming and homey. It sits on a quiet street, crouching behind a white picket fence, identical to the houses on either side. Shade from a thick line of trees dapples the street, and Sebastian can just _hear_ the sales pitch of the real estate man.

He leans against the street sign to smoke and looks around like he’s searching for an address. It’s deceptively casual. His sharp eyes slide over the neighbours’ windows, driveways, and front steps. There are, as far as he can tell, no cameras. No real security. Further down the street, two kids are playing hockey. The call of _Car!_ when they haul their net to the side is clearly audible, even from here.

The block may as well be deserted. Sebastian tosses his butt to the curb without killing it and walks calmly forward, pushing open the gate to the backyard like he’s lived in the place for years. He doesn’t glance around again.

The back yard is just as empty. Thick green grass crushes under Sebastian’s feet, wet from the sprinkler. The back door is unlocked, opening without a squeak on well-oiled hinges. Sebastian’s slow smile creeps across his face.

_A perfect slaughter house._

_You get me the nicest presents._  
He toes off his shoes and steps through the door. Inside he takes soft, careful steps, padding silently through the house. His target is cooking in the kitchen, back to the door. The sleeves on his light blue button down are pushed to the elbows as he dices something Sebastian can’t see, and his forearms are soft and pale.

Something thrills in Moran, some primal anticipation of the kill, and his movements go loose and relaxed. He moves like smoke over the tile floor, his hand sliding into his pocket with no hesitation and pulling the knife. A lonely ray of sunshine runs down it with a fish-silver flare, and then, all at once, Sebastian is in close.

The knife slams forward, jarring past the resistance of skin and sinking in below the man’s ribs, in the back, ripping forwards with a stuttering jerk as it scrapes against bone and the man screams, high pitched and nasal like an animal in a trap. Blood splatters forward, over the counter, engulfing whatever he planned to cook. A few stray drops land on the stove to sizzle. The room fills with a smell like hot iron or burnt pork. Sebastian rends a hole in him from kidney to stomach. More gore spills out, wetting Sebastian’s hands, soaking the man’s ruined shirt and slacks as he grabs at the counter and tries to turn and face his assailant.

Sebastian just smiles. He tosses his head back to get blood out of his face, and the tips of his white blonde hair have matted together into stained pink clumps. The man’s eyes are wide, whites startlingly visible. Sebastian cuts him again, not even trying to kill. High on his upper arm, over the joint, the blade bites down nearly to bone. There’s a thick, wet sound as the man’s skin tears open.

Before he can collapse, Sebastian crowds forward. The weight of their bodies together keeps him forced upright against the counter. For a moment, they share breath like lovers, stuck together with blood.  The target’s screams have faded to whimpers. Wanting them back, Sebastian stabs the knife forward again, low, hitting mid-thigh. He drinks in the screams and the hot horrified breath against his rabid animal grin like the rarest, most sinful champagne.

The knife jars upwards – Sebastian’s grip slipping in the blood – slicing, and the man is opened from thigh to sternum. Moriarty’s target is gurgling for breath now, liquid thick in his lungs as he bleeds out. He slumps to the ground like a bag of garbage when Moran releases him.

Bright blood smears down the cupboards.

“ _God._ ” After the last few seconds of violence, Sebastian’s low, rough voice is delicate in the quiet. Beneath him, the soon to be corpse makes sucking, gurgling noises, thrashing on the floor. Sebastian’s eyes are blown. He stretches, blood-spattered from head to toe, working his shoulders. In the clear light of the kitchen, his eyes look grey only in a narrow circle around the pupil.

He allows himself just that moment to luxuriate in the feeling before he rinses his knife in the sink and tucks it back into his pocket. He steals a worn-through dishrag to wipe his prints from the dead man’s skin as much he can and an ill-fitting white button down from an upstairs drawer to go home with. The ratty dishrag sweeps away evidence as he leaves it.

Out into the yard, again, Sebastian stretches in the sunlight in a dead man’s clothes and if he doesn’t exactly feel _human_ after the kill, at least he’s no longer screaming that deafening scream in his head.

\-----------------

Sebastian slams the door of the mansion behind him with a deafening bang that echoes through the house. Not that it matters. Jim is waiting for him on the staircase in the front hall. There’s the familiar skip of Sebastian’s heart at the sight of him, the same old heartbreak.

_I guess I’m not going to bother to knock after all._

_Look at you. Completely collected._

_Did it not affect you at all when I left?_

“Do you have anything to tell me about the job?” Jim asks, eyebrow arched.

_No pretty courtesies, then._

“He's dead. “ Sebastian pulls another smoke from his pack and digs in his pockets for a lighter, interrupted by a hiss from Jim. Looking up, he sees Jim staring at the cigarette with a certain stunned expression, like he can’t believe Sebastian has the balls to smoke in his house without permission. With a scowl, Sebastian shoves his smoke back in the pack. His shoulders draw back, pulling himself upright. He’s posturing defensively, and he knows it. Jim unfolds from the stairs and stands in front of Sebastian, face deceptively calm.

“Oh, is _that_ all.”

“You wanted me to report afterwards. So –“

Jim bites off the end of Sebastian’s sentence, spitting words venomously through twisted lips. “So you're _not_ going to tell me about the sodding mess you made of the man or the fact that you practically _drenched_ yourself in his blood like some common psychotic?”

Sebastian stills.

“So you had eyes on me.”

“What do _you_ think? And even if he HADN'T told me, I can smell the blood from here!”

“What exactly were you _expecting?_ ” The conversation has gotten malicious already and Sebastian, at least, knows why.

_Oh, so I wouldn’t have done this if I was still your golden boy._

_Is that it?_

_Don’t like that I’d_ enjoy _killing for you?_

Jim snarls, “I expect you to handle it _quickly_ and _quietly_ and CLEANLY, because it HAPPENS TO BE YOUR JOB!” before he takes a quick step forward and his face is shoved close against Sebastian’s. “You are no use to me in _jail._ ” For a moment, it almost seems like they’re upset for different reasons. Sebastian wants to tell him to get fucked. Shove him aside.

 _And go back to the empty flat,_ something treacherous whispers in Sebastian’s head, _And go mad?_

_And live without him?_

With an effort, he controls himself. He chokes down his pride and says, “It won't happen again.”

Jim points behind himself to the staircase. “Upstairs. _Now_. We need to have a chat in _private_.” Sebastian pushes past him with a hard knock of shoulders that he knows he’ll pay for later. He takes the stairs double, hauling himself up on the railing, and tries not to think about how they went to bed the first time.

_At the top of the stairs Jim turns with his hair backlit like a halo, and he holds out his arms for Sebastian to enter –_

Sebastian bangs into the bedroom and pulls up in the center of the floor.

He doesn’t bother to turn and watch Jim come in behind him. There are careful, measured footsteps, and then the soft click of the door being gently shut. Sebastian stands dead still in the middle of the room.

“I did the job.”

It seems like all the bitter accusation in the world goes into that sentence.

“Oh, yes, did you ever. And you _enjoyed_ it, hmm? At least according to my little birdy. Liked it a bit _too_ much, he said.”

Sebastian’s hands clasp behind his back and he falls into parade rest. He runs responses through his head and they range from a bullet to begging. Nothing seems to suit. He knows his face is impassable. He knows he would have done this differently if he was still eighteen.

_I can’t be the person I was, Jim._

_I’m sorry, god, I wish I could._

_Wish I could be whatever you wanted._

“Turn around, Sebastian.”

“Face my punishment?”

Sebastian turns slow with the look of a man going to his execution. Some part of him is wondering if he can survive another fight like the last one. If he wants to. He thinks in a flashbulb burst about the madness of the lonely apartment, and there’s a flicker of fear in his expression when he meets Jim’s eyes.

Jim’s blown eyes.

Jim’s pupils have nearly swallowed his irises, making his dark eyes into voids of absolute black. He’s watching Sebastian hungrily, gaze steady on Sebastian’s face like it’s the only thing worth looking at. He breathes, “I knew I should have been the one to go, not him. I would have loved to see it.”

_What?_

Then Jim is stalking towards him and Sebastian can’t help the reaction of his body. Those lithe swimmers muscles move like silk under Jim’s skin as he loosens his tie, tendons standing out sharply in the back of his hand. Sebastian straightens unconsciously, tilting just a little towards Jim. “You… enjoy the thought…”

Jim puts a surprisingly strong hand on his chest and shoves him back toward the bed. “Well, _stupid_ , to be sure. Leaving such a trail, making such a _mess_...” Sebastian sits down heavily. Jim’s tongue flicks out over his top lip and Sebastian is mesmerized, hands clenching on air at his sides. “It must have been _beautiful_. Such _gorgeous_ destruction.”

“I...lost control. I thought you'd be upset.”

There’s a novel in those words if you know how to read it. If Jim doesn’t know the language, he at least recognizes the story. He pauses over Sebastian on the bed.

“You were always my natural-born-killer,” he says, with a look on his face that makes the significance obvious. If Sebastian was eighteen, he’d push for more, for cloying words that would prove their mutual devotion. Now he doesn’t think he could take them. The choking weight of words could shatter the fragile acceptance on Jim’s face and Sebastian’s can’t risk that. He gulps down what feels like the first real breath he’s had in days. Oxygen floods his lungs, sweet and clean, and Jim smiles at him.  
 _We can go forward, can’t we?_

_If what I am is enough, then –_

“I'll have to check you over, of course,” Jim starts again, with all the subtlety of dialogue in a bad porno. “I can't have you getting _quite_ so _intimate_ with our targets. Strip.”

Sebastian’s hand twitches as he goes to reach for Jim and stops himself just in time. Jim smiles sharply, his eyes heavy-lidded. Sebastian can feel the condescending praise in that smile on his skin like a minor forest fire. He’s caught for a moment, wanting to struggle against Jim’s control, but desperately needing him.

In the end, his only option is obedience. He pulls his shirt over his head. When he drops the soft cotton to the floor, there’s another moment of nervous insecurity.

_My scars –_

But it’s the right response and Jim is practically purring when he says, “Lay down.” He sounds approving again. God help him, Sebastian wants that.

_I need you to be pleased with me, boss._

He falls back onto the mattress. There’s a moment of stillness where Jim doesn’t touch him, out of sight at the foot of the bed, and Sebastian strains at his other senses. Soft rustle of fabric. Quiet squeaks of leather and a light thump as Jim toes his shoes off. Then, without warning, there are hands on his thighs sliding upwards.

Sebastian’s back arcs just a little off the bed.

_Four years, four years and only one fucking kiss -_

Cool palms brush just an inch of skin on his stomach, then those clever slender fingers are at his trouser button. Sebastian shifts his hips up to help. He’s already getting half-hard, and the world is sliding away behind a queer fuzzy blackness. When cool air hits his cock he bites the inside of his cheek, hard, to keep himself from whining.

Jim’s voice cuts through the fog like a razor through gauze. “Tell me about it, Bastian. Did you gut him~?”

Sebastian swallows and he barely manages to force out, “Started with that.” His voice is rough, sunken back into his throat as his breathing gets heavier. “Into the stomach. From behind. Knife grated on his ribs.”

“Mmm...” There’s a hot press of lips on Sebastian’s stomach, soft. Jim’s tongue flicks out, traces a circle that he interrupts halfway through. Sebastian can feel Jim’s fingers tense and he’s not quite sure if it’s irritation or encouragement. “Now, now. Don’t _stop._ I want ALL the juicydetails.”

“His arm,” Sebastian says with valiant effort, considering Jim’s tongue is tracing up from his navel. Considering that every so often Jim forgets the distance between them and Sebastian’s cock brushes up against the rough wool of his suit. Sebastian knows better than to thrust, even though there’d be sobbing, perfect relief in it. He squirms, unsuccessfully fights a gasp as Jim’s silk tie falls forward along his shaft. Sharp teeth bruise punishment into his chest. “T-thigh – He would have fallen, so I got close –“ Sebastian gasps again, this time for breath, and Jim bites harder, higher.

_Please, please, be marking me._

“I-I held him up against the counter –“

“Perhaps you should _fuck me_ against a counter in the future...”

Sebastian opens his mouth to continue, moans, and loses rational thought. Jim’s head raises, dark eyes peeking out beneath that messy fringe and even if it kills Sebastian he needs Jim close now. Seb grabs two fistfuls of suit over Jim’s hips and pulls them tight together.

Jim grinds downwards with a feral grin.

 _Oh_ fuck –

Sebastian’s chest heaves as he bucks upwards but Jim’s mouth crushes down on his and leaves no room for air. He’s light-headed, dizzy with lack of oxygen. His fingertips feel far away. Jim’s twisting his tongue in slick vivid motions that Seb can barely keep up with, grinding Sebastian’s over-sensitive cock against the zipper of his trousers. It’s more than painful. It’s unbearable. Sebastian hears, faintly, something rip, and one of his hands loses grip.

He grabs again, no apologies now, another fistful of suit. Jim pulls back with a snarl.

He draws blood on Sebastian’s neck in punishment.

“F- _fuck_ – “

Sebastian writhes.

“You know, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

The sudden loss of Jim’s presence is a blow. Jim straightens in a single graceful movement, shifts position just a little so he’s straddling Sebastian. With a wicked grin, he starts to strip.

Sebastian grinds up into him again, hungry for the new angle. Jim rocks down against him, drawing a series of raw noises from the back of Sebastian’s throat that sound just a little inhuman.

Jim’s jacket drops to the floor. Tie. Shirt. Undershirt.

A pause.

Jim’s still sitting back. Sebastian growls. Jim cards unforgiving fingers through his hair, and tugs just a little as a cue. Lacking the patience for finesse and the coherence for words, Sebastian rips the button off Jim's trousers and shoves them roughly down his hips. Jim chuckles.

 _Enough of you being_ amused.

_I remember how to make you unravel._

Sebastian fists a hand around Jim cock and gives him a single tight stroke from base to tip, licking his lips again, eyes flicking up to Jim's face. Jim moans, arching back with a curve that echoes in Sebastian’s bones, primal and perfect and _right._

His hips thrust up into Sebastian’s hand, down onto the pooled fabric of his trousers between them. “Rest of the way,” he orders, but the strength and the focus is gone. Sebastian pulls at his trousers anyways.

For a moment, Jim’s hand is in the way, a fleeting interruption as Sebastian fights to toss his trousers to the floor. _Why_ doesn’t manage to break through Sebastian’s hazy thoughts until they’re both naked and Jim is pressing something into Sebastian’s hand.

A knife. Still warm from the body-heat of Jim’s back pocket. “Recreate it,” Jim hisses, straight into his ear. “Shallow cuts where you sliced him open.” He grinds down again, and Sebastian is drowning in it. His whole body shudders, a ripple from head to toe, and his grip tightens on the knife. “Cut me like you cut him.”

His eyes are wide and dark on Jim, not looking at _all_ capable of speech.

 _“Do_ _it_ ,” Jim insists, and Sebastian makes a sound caught somewhere between a growl and a moan.

_He’s serious, oh fucking Christ –_

Not needing more encouragement, Sebastian crashes upwards . He looks more animal than human now, something in his eyes bright and primeval. He wraps his arms around Jim to make the first slice forward on Jim’s back, and it slots their cocks together.

The blade bites down, Jim cries out, and his cock jerks forward, sliding against Sebastian’s shaft, slick with precum.

The one on Jim’s arm is sloppy, but then again, Jim is moaning and grinding down and panting out encouragement too much for Sebastian to remember exactly what he’d done earlier. They both lose it, after that, blood smeared on Sebastian’s palm and their bodies rutting thoughtlessly against each other. The hand that isn't holding the knife slides up Moriarty's arm to the back of his neck and Sebastian uses it to pull him down into another devouring kiss.

There’s sticky blood on their skin and the sheets, and Jim is a ragdoll in his arms breathless from pain and arousal. When Sebastian pulls back from the kiss he sees the look on Jim’s face and those huge eyes are hungry beyond comprehension, begging for more and more and more and _more_ –

Sebastian throws the knife to the side and goes to Jim like he’s going to war, biting and licking and fucking Jim`s mouth with his tongue. Knowing he can’t possibly communicate the manic affection he feels for those eyes.

“ _Lube_.”

Jim’s trembling hands knock things over on the bedside table. Sebastian’s bites are threatening to draw blood into the kiss.  There’s a soft whine from Jim, and then there’s lube flung into Sebastian’s hands and spilling over his fingers.

Two into Jim, right _fucking_ away, no more waiting.

Jim’s hands scramble for some kind of purchase on Sebastian’s back, fail, wrap in his hair with no consideration for the tangles. His knuckles go white.

Sebastian’s free hand digs into the cut on Jim’s shoulder, just to make him cry out again, and he spreads Jim open with frantic carelessness. On the off-end of his cry, Jim hisses furiously. He pulls Sebastian’s hair, claws over his shoulders, yanks his hair again harder, jamming himself back down on Sebastian’s fingers.

“Hurry the _fuck up_ and _fuck me already_!” He barks, with a jump in his voice that owes nothing to caution.

_The “please” is implied._

Sebastian grins that feral-killer's grin, rolls them over and pins Jim onto the mattress. One of his forearms braced against Jim’s throat to keep him there, he slicks himself. Jim’s eyes watch his movements, and Sebastian can feel the twitches in his muscles against the mattress.

_Hot for me, boss?_

Sebastian pushes inside with a slow roll of his hips, burying his teeth in Jim's shoulder. Jim’s ankles lock around his hips and there, _this,_ heaven, perfection –

No time to stop and enjoy it. Sebastian snarls mindless possessive noises into Jim’s skin and wraps a hand around his cock to stroke as he thrusts. He bites, Jim’s neck, where it can’t ever be hidden. Jim is too far gone to protest.

_Don’t care about work, don’t care who you have to impress._

_Mine, boss, Jim, fuck, mine mine mine –_

There are soft cries and whines on Jim’s lips and Sebastian twists his wrist on the top of each stroke, slamming his hips forward as hard as he can, as hard as they both can bear. Jim claws up his back mercilessly. He’s jamming himself back onto each thrust, and he might be pleading. Sebastian can’t tell. Everything seems to have faded into that haze of darkness, everything but the feel of Jim’s body and the warmth building far too fast in his stomach. His head drops to Jim's shoulder, trembling. Sweat beads on his spine and the back of his neck, stinging in the lines of Jim’s fingernails, running uncomfortably over his sides.

“ _Jim_ –“

Ten bright spots of pain and blood as Jim’s nails dig in deep. He cries out, loud and vulnerable, and Sebastian feels the pulse of his climax like they share a heartbeat.

It’s the broken moan of Sebastian’s name that sends Sebastian crashing over the edge after him, crying out open-mouthed into Jim's shoulder.

\--------

Later, in the gauzy affection of the afterglow, Sebastian murmurs, “Thought you'd be angry,” black hair soft against his lips.

“'M furious,” Jim’s Irish accent is a little thicker with sleep, his voice slow and drowsy. “Can't you tell?”

“No,” with a kiss to his brow, “Just thought you'd call me broken again.”

“Even if you’re broken, Tiger, you’re mine. I wouldn’t let you go that easily.” Jim’s arm, draped comfortably over Sebastian’s chest, presses downwards. Twitch of the muscles. Reassurance.

“Should have known better. “

Sebastian can just barely see the movement of eyelashes as Jim’s eyes close. He doesn’t have to look to know that Jim’s smiling.

\-----------

It is only much later that he will recall the conversation and wish, with bitter regret, that he’d asked who Jim’s little birdy had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ http://goingbadly.tumblr.com/post/57320791486/gansso-asked-for-mormor-fluff-i-kinda-fucked-up](http://goingbadly.tumblr.com/post/57320791486/gansso-asked-for-mormor-fluff-i-kinda-fucked-up) This chapter also comes with fanart! AWWW CUTIES


	2. The Little Birdy Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian learns that Jim's been concealing something from him, and the identity of the mysterious little birdy is revealed. A cliffhanger ensues shortly thereafter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I'm sorry this took forever it was very painful to write and honestly it's a little rubbish I think
> 
> I gotta tell you now HRH will update a lot less frequently then T&G because 1) T&G was written furiously fast when I was still new at my job and enjoyed life and 2) omg some characters are a such bitch to write I stg
> 
> Still no Johnlock, yet. It's coming, though.
> 
> Let me know what you guys think.

In the morning, the bedroom is soaked in pale light and delicate grey shadows. As Sebastian drifts out of sleep there’s a surreal moment where he doesn’t quite remember where he is. Then the mattress creaks in movement and Jim rests his head on Sebastian’s chest, curving an arm around his waist. The light catches in his hair, on his pale skin.

“Mornin’, Bastian,” Jim says, quiet and drowsy.

Sebastian wraps protective arms around him, drawing in a deep breath. The bed smells of blood and lube and Jim, comforting in its messiness.

“Morning.” Jim makes a complacent, sleepy noise when Sebastian speaks, and snuggles a bit closer. Sebastian smiles. “Tell me you have a kitchen in this place.”

“Breakfast?”

“I haven't made you breakfast in four years. I've missed it.” At this point, Sebastian doesn’t care how disgustingly domestic the conversation is. They’ve earned it. “I've missed you.”

“ _Course_ you have, Tiger.”

Sebastian snarls teasingly, and leans forward to bite Jim’s lip, just to hear him gasp. The bite leads to a press of lips, and thoughts of breakfast are derailed. When Jim has been thoroughly kissed and Sebastian finally manages to disentangle and roll out of bed, they’re both grinning. The bedroom floors are heated under Sebastian’s feet. _Trust Jim to be extravagantly comfortable._ He stretches, feeling the tight pull of scar tissue over his ribs, gloriously naked.

A pair of pajama pants hit him in the back of the head, and he pulls them on with a fair amount of reluctance. Behind him, there’s a bright, genuine giggle. He heads for the door, not looking back to see if Jim is following.  No need to look to know.

\----------

In the doorway to the kitchen, Sebastian stops dead.

There’s a stranger at the table.

Long white fingers curve around the handle of a steaming mug of tea, and underneath a riot of dark curls pale intense eyes flick upwards. Sebastian feels the familiar horizontal lurch of staring down something much smarter than he is as those eyes scan his face. The part of him that was born in the desert, constantly under threat of fire, itches for a gun or a bullet-proof vest.

_Who the fuck is this?_

The stranger at the table, not needing a second look, goes back to the laptop open in front of him. His dress shirt is pushed up at the sleeves. It shows off two evenly spaced rows of track marks, elbow to wrist.

Sebastian doesn’t realize he’s still frozen until Jim has to shove him aside to enter the kitchen. “Good morning, Sherly~”Jim trills, heading for the coffee machine set out on the counter.

“Jim,” comes the response, in a startling baritone that rumbles across Sebastian’s bones like thunder. “Are you ever going to stop with that infernal nickname?”

“Probably not,” Jim giggles, sounding for all the world just as genuine as he had with Sebastian a moment ago.

There’s an annoyed huff from the man, still staring at his laptop screen.

“And who is this?” Sebastian asks finally, when it becomes evident that no one is going to tell him what the _fuck_ is going on. Jim is making coffee, swaying his hips fractionally to a rhythm inaudible to the rest of the world. Sebastian wants to grab him, hard, leave accusing bruises that force him to consider what he’s doing.

_Don’t act so fucking pleased with yourself._

_What happened to not replacing me?_

The man at the table clicks something on his laptop screen, and without looking up, says “So you got that army man you were pining over back, did you? Not _quite_ what I expected. Then again, I never do expect peoples’ taste to run to pretty and vacant – rather optimistic of me, I admit, but there you are. I thought he’d be at least a _little_ impressive.”

From the tone of his voice it’s obvious that Jim is rolling his eyes, even before he turns to Sebastian. “Sebastian, Sherlock. Sherlock, Sebastian. He's my business partner. Very useful.” There’s a moment of doubt where Sebastian can’t tell which of them Jim is speaking to, then Jim’s face twists and he deadpans, “Very _platonic_.”

_Me, then, considering what we did last night._

“He lives in your house,” Sebastian says, jerking his chin in Sherlock’s direction. “An _addict_.” Certain prejudices, once grown, go bone-deep. Service in an area famous for poppies had led Sebastian to look down on and mistrust a certain kind of person; the kind who’d rather escape to a needle than deal with their bullshit.

He’d thought Jim would know better than to trust a junkie, especially considering the lifeless couch-cover Jim’s mother had been.

“It's something to do when I'm bored,” Sherlock drawls, still not looking up. Sebastian’s hands curl tight into fists.

“We're _working_ on that,” Jim interrupts impatiently from the kitchen. “ _Aren't we._ ”

“ _You're_ attempting to work on it. There is nothing wrong with _me_.”

Jim sighs in a way that implies the argument has happened before and will most likely happen again even if nothing ever changes. Sebastian looks between them, the flawless pale junkie and Jim, who cares enough to argue with him about addictions. His face goes cold and closed off, hiding his thoughts. Sherlock, noticing something Jim doesn’t, stands abruptly. He’s taller than Sebastian thought. Toe to toe they’d be almost the same height, although the skeletal frame of Sherlock’s addiction makes him look taller. With no mass to distract, all that’s obvious about Sherlock are the long clean forms of his bones. He sweeps out of the room without a word, taking his tea and his laptop with him. Jim shakes his head, watching him go.

“He’s a _pain,_ to be honest. I just _hate_ that attitude.” Jim turns back to Sebastian with an ingratiating smile. “If only he weren’t so gosh darn _clever,_ I wouldn’t even need him. _Buuuuuut…_ I do. Almost as much as I need you.”

 _You don’t need anyone_ but _me!_

Rather than admit that it feels like betrayal, Sebastian pushes past him into the kitchen silently.

“Oh what _now,_ ” Jim snaps, following the movement. The teasing note to his voice has almost been swallowed by impatience. “You aren’t _jealous._ Not even _you’re_ that thick.” Sebastian stays silent, digs through the kitchen cupboards for pots and pans with violent ferocity – slamming doors, rattling things around just to make noise. “He's only _here_ because I _have_ to keep an eye on him.” Jim’s voice is speeding up. Sebastian can’t tell if he’s angry or worried. “You’re so _curious,_ Tiger, you want to know how I got such a _tasty_ little junkie for us? _Eaaasy,_ really. I – “

“Don’t, please.”

Compared to the lilt of Jim’s voice Sebastian’s is robotically flat. Jim cuts his chattering off short, perching uneasily in the chair that Sherlock abandoned. Sebastian can feel his stare in the kitchen like a physical force. He doesn’t turn to meet the gaze, just focuses on locating the eggs and milk.

The process of omelets is a familiar one, and Sebastian enjoys the rather extensive kitchen Jim stocks. No one in the house seems capable of taking advantage of it, but it doesn’t stop all of the ingredients from being top of the line and fresh enough to be within hours of purchase.

_Jim must replace them as they go bad._

_God knows he’d start a fire boiling water._

_And junkies only cook one thing._

“Tiger, if you’re going to pretend I don’t exist, I’m going to do something particularly _nasty_ and _unavoidable_ to your _face._ ” Jim’s voice cuts through the silence darkly. Apparently he’s had enough of being ignored.

“Of course you _exist_ ,” Sebastian tells him, knowing it’s not a real answer. He slides the lid on the eggs, turns the heat down. Cheese’ll melt better, this way.

“Oh, _good,_ I exist. _Wonderful,_ really.” Sebastian glances up at the stove timer, purposefully not looking at Jim. From the way Jim’s voice is only getting deeper and louder, like an engine revving, this isn’t the best way to calm him down. “Now, just so we’re _crystal_ clear - you aren't going to talk to me, because I work with someone who isn’t _you._ ”

Sebastian tries and fails to keep a handle on his own irritation. “Do most of your colleagues live in the house? Just in case I run into one at breakfast again.”

“Be very _careful_ what you say here, _Moran_ , it might save your life.”

“For the record. Has he also taken over keeping your bed warm while I was away?” Sebastian turns the stove off as he speaks, and slides half the omelet onto a plate. He intends to give it over the table to Jim.

Intends to, but plating it is as far as he gets before there’s a clatter of movement and tight fingers wrapped in his hair. His head slams downwards abruptly, through the plate and into the counter. Sebastian very suddenly has a face full of hot egg and blood. There’s a blinding mess of pain where his nose was a moment ago. Pieces of the shattered plate crunch under his feet as he stumbles back from the stove.

_Pissed him off._

Jim tugs his pajamas back into place and smoothes his hair. “Now Tiger,” he says, sounding reasonable, “I told you, _there's been no one else_. You should probably _listen._ ”

Sebastian wipes a disgusting paste of bloody food from his face with the back of his hand, wincing when he feels his nose. _Probably broken._ He looks at the filth on his hand for a moment, getting steadily angrier, then his gaze finds Jim. “No one else. Except your junkie _whore,_ ” he snaps, voice thick and nasal.

Jim smiles, showing perfect white canines, and Sebastian recognizes it as more dangerous than all the obvious anger in the world. “ _Wrong thing to say,_ ” he sings, and then he’s darting forward again. Sebastian takes a startled step back, but Jim has always been fast and Sebastian has never wanted to hurt him. Jim’s in close before Sebastian can move. His elbow smashes up, so quick it blurs, and there’s another brilliant firework of pain where Sebastian’s nose should be.

_If it wasn’t broken before, it is now._

Sebastian goes down hard, slipping on pieces of egg and broken plate. Jim takes a split second to grab something from a kitchen drawer, and then he’s straddling Sebastian, hauling one of his arms out to the side.

“I don’t have _time_ to argue with you, darling,” Jim hisses, breath hot in Sebastian’s ear while he yanks his wrist diagonally upwards. “So you’re going to stay here and _cool off_ while I go to work.” He presses a kiss, clammy and quick, into Sebastian’s cheek. Then there’s the metal ratcheting sound of handcuffs closing, and a tight cold pressure around Sebastian’s wrist. Sebastian jerks against the bonds, and grabs for Jim, but Jim is already skipping backwards out of reach.

“Don't you _dare,”_ Sebastian snarls. Jim raises an eyebrow at him, pieces of egg smeared on his black pajamas. He still looks untouchable. “ _Jim!_ ”

Sebastian should know better than trying to scare Jim into compliance. Despite Seb’s roar of frustration, Jim turns neatly on his heel and marches out of the kitchen. He ignores the crush of ceramic shards under his bare feet and if they cut him, Sebastian can’t tell their bloodstains apart.

\-------

  
An hour later Sebastian has had time to maneuver himself to the sink and clean his face. He’s also had time to pull against the cuff hard enough that his wrist is angry black and red, bruised and starting to swell.

Sherlock comes back in, gives him a blank, uncaring look, and starts making tea above his head as if he’s not there at all. Sebastian snarls.

“You ought to know I consider myself married to my work,” Sherlock says calmly, when the kettle is boiling.

“Bullshit,” Sebastian retorts, “You don’t get to be an addict by ignoring your fucking pleasure response.” He tugs against the cuff again, sending a jolt of pain through his wrist. Not that it will do anything. The struggle is more an expression of frustration than an actual attempt to free himself, at this point.

“I had been hoping you'd be much smarter than this, considering how often Jim waxed poetic about you. But _no,_ too much to ask for! Had to be another war-scarred veteran, how tedious. Dear _God,_ and after he talked about his _crush_ more than he talked about the _work._ ” Sebastian can’t miss the quick little flick of the eye Sherlock gives him, gauging Sebastian’s reaction. It’s uncomfortably familiar. From Jim. And Mycroft Holmes.

_I wonder if Jim even bothered to track Holmes down._

_Yet another piece of unfinished business._

“Jim doesn't wax poetic about anything,” Sebastian snarls, because he knows from experience that silence and avoidance betray vulnerability.

“Doesn't he?” Sherlock’s eyebrow raises. “Mmm. No. Never dramatic at all, Moriarty. What was I thinking?” Amused against his will, Sebastian fights a smile. As soon as he realizes that, of course, he yanks on the cuff again to compensate.

_I don’t like addicts and I don’t like him, and fuck Jim for keeping him._

“I don't want to know how extensively he confides in you.”

The kettle boils, and Sherlock busies himself with a tea-bag. “ _Dull._ ”

“And ordinary. And boring. I've been informed,” Sebastian glares up at him. The insult hurts, of course, because it sounds like Jim. If he was free, he’d break Sherlock’s neck. As it stands all he can do is sneer at him, “Like you're much better. I’ve seen too many of your kind. Undisciplined. Twitchy. Smart, of course, smart enough to think your brain puts you over the guy on the other side of the trigger.” Sherlock draws the teabag out, deposits it on the counter without comment. Sebastian’s voice rises in volume, teeters on the edge of shouting. “Killed men like you, too. A damn lot of them. You think faster than a 3500 foot per second bullet?”

_And I could kill you if he’d let me._

_You can’t keep him safe with just your brain, I know you can’t._

_You’re not as useful as me._

Sherlock, sounding bored and distracted, says, “Oh, excellent, _threats._ I'm intelligent enough to avoid the gun and gunman altogether, so I wouldn’t bother with those. Not unless you _really_ think you’d manage to catch me in your crosshairs.” He glances at the stove timer, then back to Sebastian. “You should really stop pulling on that cuff. Good lord, when will you people learn? Sentiment is such a dangerous thing.” Sebastian pulls it again to be contrary. There’s a pop in his wrist, something threatening to snap. “You can fight all you want, but it has to be obvious even to _your_ bizarre little mind that you’re not _really_ going to leave.  You detest me simply because you're territorial, _obviously_ you’re not going to _walk away_. No, you’re _far_ too dependent on him now to do that. It’s a shame, isn’t it, the way the more you threaten to break that wrist the more you’re absolutely certain you’re not going to abandon him.”

With nothing better to say and nothing he can deny, Sebastian settles on, “I don't detest you.” A short silence follows, and then, “You scare me.”

“I’m not a threat, I _told_ you. I’m married to my work. Why would I – “

 _Shut up, shut up, shut_ up.

“I'll pretend you're a child and use single syllable words, shall I?” Sebastian barks it out loudly to cut off the words he can’t bear to hear. He surges upwards after Sherlock, but Sherlock is a better judge of distance. Before Sebastian can grab him, the handcuffs reach their maximum length and he’s yanked back. Something _cracks_ in his wrist. The pain seems numb and distant compared to the urgency of his frustration. “I _loved_ Jim and Jim loved me. Damn him if he tries to hide it. He did. We were alone and there was only us in the world. He _needed_ me. Now I've come home changed and I don't know if emotion is enough to –“

He cuts himself off, takes a heavy breath. _If I say out loud I might lose him, and there isn’t enough knocking on wood in the world to make it safe._

“…I thought at least I was still the only person in the world he needed. I'm not scared he wants you to choke on his cock. But there's no reason other than _sentiment_ for him to put me above you and the sentiment could be _dead_.”

Sherlock is watching him thoughtfully. Sebastian forces down the rising emotion, the pain that’s far more vulnerable than anger. “I have to stay beside him. Even if he doesn’t want me, I _have_ to. I have to be the most useful thing he has, so he can never set me aside.” Sebastian glares up at Sherlock, his breathing a little quick, daring Sherlock to challenge the words.

“You've sprained your wrist,” Sherlock clicks his tongue with a _tsk_ of bland disapproval.  He takes his tea-cup from the counter, and turns away.

“Don’t tell him,” Sebastian says finally, when Sherlock’s almost at the door to the kitchen. “He can’t know.”

_I’m weak enough already._

_Any more imperfections and he’ll abandon me._

“For all the time he spends picking apart other's flaws,” Sherlock replies, without looking back, “He has a surprising amount of his own hidden away. _Ta_.”

\-------

When Jim returns three hours later, he’s dressed impeccably in a Westwood suit. Sebastian’s wrist has swollen until the thick metal of the cuffs is visibly cutting into it. Where it isn’t angry red, it’s black with bruising. His face is a crusted mess of blood. In the doorway, Jim’s eyes widen.

“What have you _done_?”

_What, you were expecting me to be all cleaned up?_

 “I had a row with my boyfriend. And then a conversation his house pet.” Sebastian tries for humor. It only falls a little flat.

“And what did the house pet _say_ , exactly?”

Sebastian looks away. “Let me out of the damn cuffs.”

“You've sprained your wrist, you _imbecile_ , I should leave you in them to _rot._ ” Jim stalks over to him anyways. The heels of his polished shoes make sharp clicking sounds on the kitchen tiles. When he kneels in front of Sebastian and pulls out the handcuff key, his fingers shake just a little.

Sebastian winces as the cuff unlocks. Jim pulls it off gently, then a thumb and cool forefinger wrap around Sebastian’s wrist to gauge the swelling. “You broke my nose,” Sebastian says.

“And I should still beat you for this.”

“But you won’t.” Close like this, Sebastian can see the concern in Jim’s eyes, the softness hidden where no one else can see. He reaches out with his good hand, straightens Jim’s lapel. It’s an apology, of sorts. Jim bends his head to Sebastian’s shoulder and takes a deep breath. For a moment, they’re both still in the aftermath of violence. This is as close as they’ll come to aftercare, and they both know it.

When Sebastian thinks the quiet can stand the strain of words, he asks, “Why does he live with you, Jim? Who is he?”

“I couldn’t get to Mycroft Holmes for what he did, darling. But his poor, _bored_ little brother… Dear Sherlock was so awfully easy to dismantle.” Jim shifts closer so they can’t be overheard. With a triumphant smile, he presses his mouth to Sebastian’s ear and tells him gleefully _how_.

 


	3. Sebastian and Sherlock have a Day Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God I hate chapter summaries I don't know if you're not reading T&G/HRH already this is not the place to start I suppose. Sherlock and Jim's origin story and Sebastian and Sherlock on a job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my beta's, Mie and Cia, and special thanks to Rachel, who has no user name but left me a comment at exactly the right time to push me to finally finish this chapter. And, what's more, get more than halfway through Chapter Four. So you'll have a chapter that's at LEAST fifty percent smut probably next week.
> 
> This chapter has no Johnlock warning attached.
> 
> I continue to beg you for comments and kudos. <3

Sherlock didn’t notice Jim waiting out front of the university. The taller man stepped out of the science building and shook out a smoke into his hand with a movement somehow liquid and halting at the same time. Inborn grace dulled by lethargy. He sparked it and took a long, fortifying drag. His face was drawn, a distant expression that seemed to dare anyone to speak with him.

Jim could see the thin current of pain underneath it like a glowing target. The way Sherlock’s lip quirked up at the side with cynical amusement, hiding any chance he might be actually affected by something –

_Oh goody._

Jim just _loved_ people who thought they were untouchable. Give him an invincible iceman and a cup of hot cocoa and Jim could waste an entire evening without being bored _once._

“Look who’s clever,” He purred, taking in Sherlock’s tense bearing with obvious appreciation. Sherlock spun to face him with narrowed eyes, gaze running over Jim in wary examination. “The only clever one in a flock of sheep, I bet.” Jim leant against the wall, admiring Sherlock.

_Those cheekbones. Oooh, and your cute little curls._

_Mycroft should have told me his brother was delicious._

He kept his voice smooth and flattering, his posture relaxed. Being untouchable is a power play, and Jim was far better at it. “It’s obvious. The way you look at all the little people.”  He could almost see the conclusions Sherlock came to in the air between them.

_And quickly too._

_Take after your brother, handsome? Perfect._

Sherlock took another long, careful drag, and breathed out a thick cloud of smoke before answering.  “I’m flattered by your interest. But I have precious few moments to spare.”

His voice was deep, naturally caressing. A voice made for promises and temptations. Jim giggled delightedly. “I’m here to give you something, A _job_ , Mr. Holmes. Not to try to get you in _bed._ ”

 _Although I certainly wouldn’t_ mind, _if you promised to say all sorts of horrible things in that voice of yours._

_Seb would probably be jealous, the poor dear._

“Oh of _course_ not,” Sherlock sneered back, “You’re staring at me because you’re bored. I really don’t have time for this. Who are you? Quickly, now, I’ve things to do.” His voice went from smooth and sinful to sharp and biting in a split second. Jim knew better to buy in to the shift of mood. Holmes wasn’t as annoyed as he wanted Jim to believe.

_Not half._

_You wouldn’t mind either, would you._

_You ain’t never had a friend like me…_

Jim shrugged his shoulders up and made a face. “Come on, Holmes. I’m not the one that’s bored here.” He pushed himself off the wall and swayed forward, noting with malicious delight Sherlock watching his movements absorbedly. “Your body language is screaming ‘ _get me out of this place!_ ’ Isn’t it wonderful that I can? As long as you promise to be ever-so- _grateful._ ”

“What could you possibly offer me?” Sherlock dropped the butt of his cigarette to the cement and crushed it under his heel. His voice was dripping with venom. Jim had to smile. _Come on, Holmes, I know you want to play with me._ “A corporate office job? Want me to be a spy? Collect information for you? Dull. I’m not interested in being exploited by a large company for my intellect, thank you, my brother has offered quite often enough. And there’s no challenge-“

He stepped forward to meet Jim as he spoke, snarling those accusations of dullness down into Jim’s face. That close it was possible to see how bright his eyes would be without the enlarged pupil, how pale and luminous.

_Ooh, Sherly, that’s a little bit sexy._

_But haven’t you noticed what a bad boy I’ve been?_

“Come _on_ , you’re smarter than _that_ ,” Jim breathed back, not backing down. If they kept doing this alpha-male physical confrontation stuff, they were going to end close enough to start furiously snogging. “Go on, then. Tell me what I’m offering you.”

He smiled and could almost see the hesitation when Sherlock wanted to back down. But they were too close for that now.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and made his decision. Staying close and personal, he rattled off, “You’re young, probably twenty-three, and you place a lot of emphasis on your looks; the suit is an expensive brand and the shoes are even costlier. All designer names, so, wealthy then. But it was self-made money – poor growing up, the care you take of the clothes shows that. Last season’s designs but they look brand new. And, as for the job; if you had sat in an office all day your shoes wouldn’t be so worn. You do a lot of footwork. And it’s stressful. Dangerous, even. You might have gotten the powder smudge on your hand from a firing range, but oh, I doubt it. Fox tie-pin means you admire cleverness, and that’s why you’re after me to join you. Read the articles I wrote for the chemistry journal, did you? So. Big money, but not corporate, with a job that requires suits at work and most likely guns.” Sherlock looked smug. “Organized crime it is.”

When he finished Sherlock took another deep breath and the smug expression wavered. His expression settled slowly into guarded lines, like he was waiting for Jim to bite his head off. When Jim laughed instead, and clapped delightedly, he looked completely startled, and a little knocked down.

 “You’re very good,” Jim told him, grinning, “That was amazing. If just a _bit_ long-winded. I’m Jim Moriarty, and it’s a pleasure to _finally_ meet you face to face, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock’s brows furrowed, confused.

_Oh, did you expect me to hate you?_

_We’re just alike, you and I. Except you don’t have a defense in the world against me…_

“I simply _have_ to employ you. Think about it, Sherlock, you and I, running all of London!  I could get you any little scientific testing devices you needed, an unlimited amount of your 7% solution-“ Sherlock blanched at that, and Jim grinned wider. _Thought it was a secret, darling? No secrets from me._  “-All you’d have to do is help me occasionally. Anytime anything really _odd_ happens, I’ll consult you. If nothing does – unlimited free time to do all the experiments you like. And I’d _love_ if you kept me updated on your research. Neat, isn’t it? Perfect for the two of us.” Jim saw Sherlock hesitate, waited for the moment of indecision before he pulled his trump card. “And can you _imagine_ what your brother would say?”

Jim’s smile was sharp and challenging. Sherlock stopped hesitating. He reached out, and Jim took his hand. “I’d be delighted to work with you, Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock replied brusquely, as they shook. “When do I start?”

Jim winked. “You’ve already begun.”

\--------

After Jim finishes speaking, there’s a long silence. Finally, Sebastian says, “You took Sherlock because Mycroft took me. He lives in the house as an insult and threat to Mycroft more than because you want him here.”

“Yes.”

“And the drugs?”

“My own very _special_ supply. I’m afraid our darling little Sherly will never be satisfied by anything else. If he tries to leave, _well_ –“

“Withdrawal will force him back.”

“Oh, _good._ You _got_ it.” Jim nuzzles his neck in approval. “All done being thick then, Tiger?”

“No,” Sebastian says, “Never.” He wraps his arms around Jim, ignoring the bayonet-stab of pain in his wrist. Jim settles easily into his lap, places his head on Sebastian’s chest over his heart.

He counts three beats, Jim listening to his heart slowing and becoming even.

“You’re a mess,” Jim says when they’re both composed. Teasing.

Sebastian chuckles. The vibration of it rocks his wrist, and his nose, more broken shards of pain. They’re not hard to ignore.

“Your fault.”

“Well, _yeah._ Your poor _face,_ Tiger.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“No,” Jim pulls back to trace a finger down the now-crooked line of Sebastian’s nose. His eyes drift lower, studying the path his touch carves around Sebastian’s mouth. The pad of his finger gathers a thin film of blood, and Sebastian’s breathing goes shallow and quiet as he tries not to move. “I don’t think I am after all.” Touch of his fingers on Seb’s lip, now. Something dark in his eyes. Something hungry. Sebastian can feel tension across Jim’s muscles like the build of a thunderstorm. “Do you know how quickly you’re supposed to reset a broken nose, darling?”

“Within half an hour of the break.”

“ _Whoops._ ” Jim grabs Sebastian’s face in cold, skeletal hands. Sebastian tries to jerk back, but he’s held in place by Jim’s palms set tight on either side of the swelling. Sebastian struggles then, even though he knows it’s useless, twisting against Jim’s fingertips and making them dig deeper into his cheeks. Jim is grinning, pleased and challenging. When he jerks his hands downwards Sebastian’s nose cracks like dry wood.

Sebastian’s mind assembles several things not coherent enough to be thoughts. _Ow_ doesn’t seem to cover it. _Fuck_ and _Christ_ and _Jim!_ aren’t close either. Mostly, he thinks without words, a cry in his skull, the scream of his instinctive urge to recoil.

Before he can calm himself, Jim’s lips descend on his. In the white-hot haze of pain Sebastian feels Jim’s body move over him and just like that – it doesn’t matter what started his heart racing. Now it’s just a rush, indistinguishable from any other excitement. Now Sebastian clings to the back of Jim’s ribs, where each bone feels starkly defined, and Jim’s tongue curls around his whimpers.

\--------

A week later there’s a loud and distressing crash from the general vicinity of Sherlock’s room at seven forty-five in the morning. From the tell-tale shattering, glass is involved. It’s followed by a throaty scream of frustration, and several loud percussive bangs.

Sebastian rolls onto his back, and rubs a hand over his face.

“Your _fucking_ addict,” he moans.

Jim, already awake, glances up from his phone. He’s propped comfortably against the headboard, supported by several large pillows. His hair sticks out at impossible angles and there are bags under his eyes. Again.

“At least he waited for a reasonable hour today. You should be grateful.”

“Seven in the morning is not _reasonable._ ”

“Kitten…”

“Seven in the morning is an _abomination._ ”

Jim laughs, puts his phone on the bedside table, and leans over to kiss Sebastian sweetly.

“I’ll just give you both something to do then, shall I?” Sebastian grumbles. Jim strokes his cheek with a bony finger, smiling. “Come on. How bad could it possibly be?”

\-------

Six hours later, Sebastian stumbles down an aisle between two long lines of factory machinery, clutching his leg. Through his fingers, thin trails of blood seep down to his knee. A shallow gash has been ripped out of his thigh, the comet-trail of a bullet, ruining the expensive suit Jim had insisted he wear. His sprained wrist sends sharp jags of pain up his forearm on every step, his lungs are burning, and the gun at his hip is hopelessly empty.

_Fuck that stupid, senseless, cocky, strung-out skinny little –_

Cursing Sherlock isn’t going to help. The poor fuck is probably dead anyways.

Reaching the warehouse had been fine. Identifying exactly who’d been skimming blow and money off the top of Jim’s profits had been painfully easy, as Sherlock had known within seconds.

And that’s where it had all gone to shit.

Sherlock had been strung out all morning, irises swallowed by glassy pupils. He’d spent the cab ride over to Jim’s warehouse staring fixedly at drops of rain on the window, muscles jerking him against the seat every so often like he’d forgotten how to hold himself comfortably. His face had been slack, and waxen, and flushed in two bright spots high on his cheekbones.

“He’s using the money to maintain a frankly _appallingly_ expensive mistress,” Sherlock had slurred, when they came across the target. He looked then like he didn’t realize he was speaking out loud. His voice had carried the wooden tone of recitation, following some script undetectable to anyone else. “Useless, really, considering she’s been screwing his boss for the past month. Look at his. Watch. Right trouser leg,” a long pause, “Shoe.” Then Sherlock had taken a deep breath, blinked, and almost surfaced from his mental haze. For a moment, his eyes had been nearly clear.

Then it was gone, and he’d slumped back into that limp expression like a cow going to slaughter, and the warehouse manager embezzling Jim’s funds had started screaming.

Sebastian can’t remember who pulled a gun first, him or the manager’s thugs. He remembers clearly dragging Sherlock into cover, and Sherlock digging his fingers into his own thick curls. They had been startlingly white in the darkness of his hair, clutching tight over his ears to block out the gunfire. Sebastian remembers trying to get him to move. He remembers giving up. He remembers breaking cover, and the lucky shot that spread the manager’s brains over the wall. Jim is going to be furious when he hears Sebastian abandoned Sherlock, but there you are.

_The stupid junkie wouldn’t budge. Had to get out of there…_

When he’d gone for the factory floor and the back exit, of _course_ he’d been hit. Of _fucking_ course. It was that sort of day.

Sebastian reaches the end of the manufacturing row and ducks off to the left where a fire exit sign is dimly visible. Behind him, there are shouts, men searching the place, but it’s twenty feet to the exit –

Ten feet –

Five feet –

His fingers stretching for the doorknob, and then Sebastian crashes out into the dismal grey of the parking lot and limps to Jim’s car. It’s raining, so light it’s almost mist, and the water mixes with the blood on his fingers. They stick painfully to the skin of his leg, pulling at him with each step.

_Fuck that stupid, senseless, cocky, strung-out skinny little –_

_The poor fuck is probably dead anyways_.

\---------


	4. Gun!Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the box. Sebastian comes home to report the botched job and Jim is not entirely forgiving. No Johnlock warning; pure MorMor more porn with a tiny slice of plot at the top.

Sebastian’s tread on the expensive wood flooring of the front hall is uneven. _Click, squish. Click, squish._ One expensive Italian shoe makes a smart noise that reverberates menacingly off the walls. The other one, soaked through with blood, oozes under his foot like a cheap sneaker. Jim is going to be furious.

_Ruined the shoes and the addict. Hope he doesn’t go for the nose again._

Sebastian doesn’t get far into the house before he runs into judge, jury, and executioner. Jim has dragged one of the antique chairs from the dining room into the gun cage and is sprawled out in it facing the door. He's idly tapping a pistol against his lips.

“No rush,” Jim drawls. He’s dressed to his nines as usual, not a single hair daring disobedience. Sebastian takes a moment to breathe him in, forgetting exhaustion and injury and soggy shoes. The gleam of the gun against Jim’s thin lips looks like a promise, and the chair looks like a throne. Around him, the steel bars of the cage are striped with high-powered weaponry. Cases on the wall display what could be the contents of a small country’s armory. The harsh lighting meant to illuminate the weaponry casts Jim’s face in stark shadows, picking out his cheekbones and the hollows of his eyes.

Jim has a look on his face like he knows what Sebastian is about to say and another broken nose isn’t the worst thing he’s considering. Sebastian shifts, taking weight off his injured leg.

“It went bad,” he says finally.

“ _Evidently_.”

The gun taps on Jim’s lip. Sebastian fights to keep the fear off his face.

“Sherlock provoked the target. His thugs engaged us. I was injured. Sherlock fell behind.” When Sebastian mentions Sherlock, Jim starts to smile. The hand wrapped around the gun drops loosely beside the chair with the bounce and sway of a noose.

“What happened to the thief you went hunting?” Jim’s voice is sickly sweet, gun swinging distractingly at his side.

“ _Dispatched,_ ” Sebastian replies, with crisp efficiency.

“So,” Jim concludes politely, raising the pistol and looking down it as if making sure the sights are aligned to his liking. “You _panicked,_ shot the target, abandoned my flat mate, and tracked blood on my floors. _Well._ ”

_Probably a coincidence he’s aiming at my injured leg._

_He wouldn’t shoot me._

_…Fuck, I wish I believed that._

“You’ve got a bit of a _death-wish_ , darling.”

Sebastian recalls forcefully how Jim’s face had looked when he set Seb’s nose. His heart speeds, thudding against his rib-cage. He feels his head rise, prideful and defiant, the jut of his chin like a challenge as he tries to stare Jim down. The muzzle of the gun is drifting upwards now, tracing a careful S curve from Sebastian’s injured thigh to his face. It settles between his eyes. Sebastian’s breath is shallow. He stays intent on the dull black steel, following the movement until he can see straight down the barrel, until Jim’s gaze is meeting his with six inches of metal and death between them.

“You wouldn’t shoot me.”

“You’re so sure?” Jim purrs. Sebastian tries to think of an answer that isn’t a lie, and it takes him longer than it should. Jim keeps the gun steady, aimed straight at Sebastian’s face. Seb wonders what he would do if it went off accidentally, if it blew his brain backwards over the carefully chosen wall paper. His breath picks up speed. Jim’s smile is unnerving as he watches Sebastian swallow, predatory enjoyment obvious in the way his canines are visible. “I’ve always thought execution was such an _intimate_ act,” he continues, voice dropping low and caressing.

Sebastian’s lips part on his next breath in. Fear floods through his veins, a cold so fierce it feels hot. Jim’s head tilts back, gaze down the gun hooded by those impossibly thick eyelashes, and Sebastian is caught like a butterfly impaled for display. “If I wasn't so bent on keeping you…”

“Jim – “

“I'd _love_ it, Tiger, I really would. Watching the light go out of your eyes. You know there’s always been something really _sexy_ about you on the ground.  You’d be all –“ He capers, mocking a body falling, twisting in the chair. The gun never wavers. “And I’d be the on-ly one to see. No one else would _ever_ know you like that.” A hair on Jim’s head has fallen out of place, over his forehead. His eyes are wide, and very dark, and Sebastian’s heart is pounding in his ears so loud he thinks Jim can hear it.

_You like this idea, Christ, you like it enough to do it._

_And god help me I like it too._

_I could get off on what you’d look like killing me._

Jim gestures with the gun and Sebastian steps forward like he’s attached to it with a string. Jim’s arm moves out of the way. Seb takes it as his cue to straddle Jim in the chair, making it creak alarmingly when he settles. When he leans down, Jim tilts his head back, keeping his lips out of reach. Sebastian curses softly. “No sudden movements,” Jim breathes, and Sebastian feels the cold metal of the barrel press against his neck.

He whimpers.

Jim laughs, and Sebastian wants to curl up and die of shame. But that cold metal circle is still pressed into his jugular, keeping him still, and Jim is sliding his free hand up under Sebastian’s shirt. “You’d _love_ it, Tiger. You’d be panting for me. Just like you’re panting for me now.” Jim grinds his hips upwards and Sebastian gasps, hating himself for how weak it sounds. Jim’s nails dig in. Pain on his back like fire and the metal of the gun like ice, and Sebastian writhes between the two like a worm on a fishing hook.

“ _Jim,”_ he gasps again, like a reflex. He’s unable to come up with better words to communicate the hollow ache in his bones.

“Tell me you want it, Tiger.”

“ _Yes._ Jesus fucking _Christ._ ”

“Are you begging for the gun or my cock?” Jim drags the handgun forward over Seb’s jaw, and Sebastian flinches hard. His hands on the chair grip tight to keep from trembling. “No sudden movements now, Sebby~ It might go _off_.” Jim’s voice is a threat or a promise and Sebastian can’t help himself.

“You wouldn't...”

“Wouldn't I?” The gun presses up under his chin, and Jim follows the motion; oh-so-slowly stretching upwards, torturous, until his breath and his lips meet Sebastian’s. The kiss is gentle and unhurried, and Sebastian strains into it, desperate for anything Jim will allow him to take.

“ _Please_ ,” he says, although he doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking for.

“Oh, Kitten,” Jim murmurs against his lips, “You want so _badly._ ” Then his teeth dig in as the safety clicks back on. Blood blooms in the kiss between them and Jim devours Sebastian’s mouth; fingers scrabbling under the hem of Sebastian’s shirt as the gun clatters off over some cupboard.

 _Broken every fucking rule of gunsafe,_ Sebastian thinks dizzily.

His shirt drops to the floor. After a harried pause where Jim wrestles with his remaining clothing, there’s a snarl of frustration. Sebastian feels a lurch of movement underneath him. Then, very suddenly, he’s falling back; Jim slipping snake-like out of his grip as Sebastian snatches for something to catch him.

He hits the floor hard and pain jags from the bones of his spine down his thigh, scorching his delirious mind. He cries out, arcing up, and Jim is there to press him back down. His trousers are stripped from him next, torn bloody and rough from the bullet wound. The scabs rip. Blood trickles down Sebastian’s leg and he takes a breath in just this side of a sob, and Jim laughs and grabs Seb’s chin.

“Look at me,” Jim commands him. Sebastian’s eyes open, even though he doesn’t remember shutting them. Jim is still fully dressed. His hair is unsalvageably mussed, curling and frothing around the edges of his mad-dog eyes. “Beg me again,” he rasps, “Ask me not to kill you, darling, tell me to _fuck_ you until you _cry._ ”

“ _Boss,_ ” Sebastian hisses, and that’s all he gets out before Jim slaps him hard across the face. The floor is cool against his cheek, and he shuts his eyes to concentrate on breathing. Jim’s hands slide down his sides, to his thighs. Sebastian chokes a breath in and then one of those thin, clever hands grips the bullet wound and another wraps around his cock and between the pain and pleasure Sebastian screams, helpless and broken.

Jim leaves Seb on the floor while he strips. His clothing gets folded neatly on the shelf, while Sebastian grips hard at the concrete and doesn’t dare move apart from the short needy thrusts of his hips against air. He watches Jim through eyes narrowed down to slits, hungry for the way the light of the gun locker gleams on his hair. There are small goose bumps on Jim’s legs and Sebastian swallows, hard, when Jim grabs lube and the pistol. He comes back to straddle Sebastian, places the gun on the floor. When Sebastian thrusts upwards he raises his eyebrows, just a little, just enough.

_Not allowed._

Sebastian can take not thrusting.

What he _can’t_ take is Jim coating his own fingers with lube; what he can’t take is the way Jim’s face goes slack with pleasure as he starts to fuck himself on his fingers overtop Sebastian; what he _can’t take_ is the way Jim makes little lilting moans and looks down with knowing eyes as if to say, _you’d kill to be doing this now_. Sebastian groans, trembling with frustration, and Jim only gets louder. On each thrust of his fingers out his knuckles brush back against Sebastian’s cock and it feels like an electrical shock.

_I can’t. I can’t. Jim, please –_

_Please, I can’t –_

“Please!”

Jim’s hand withdraws as if pulled by the word, and he reaches further down to stroke Sebastian. Seb sobs, thrusting up into Jim’s slick, warm fingers.

“Now, Tiger? Right now? You can’t _stand_ it anymore?”

“Boss… Please… _Please..._ ”

“Oh, if I _must._ ”

Jim slams them hard together with no further lube or preparation involved. It must hurt. It almost hurts Sebastian, the sudden sensation so incredibly intense, hot and vivid, Jim clamping down on him so hard he thinks he’ll have bruises. He gasps. And Jim goes for the gun.

The barrel presses against his lips and Sebastian, without thinking, opens them.

The gun slides into his mouth, and out, slow. Jim mimics the motion with his hips. A short, gentle roll. He’s stroking himself with the hand not holding the gun, now, and Sebastian can’t quite see whether or not he’s got the safety on.

“Deeper you swallow,” he purrs, “The harder I’ll fuck you. If I come before you do, Tiger, I’m _leaving you_ like this _._ ”

Sebastian whimpers around the gun in his mouth, and obediently opens wider. The gun slides in, again, growing slick and warm with his saliva, and Jim true to his word copies each thrust with his hips. Sebastian thinks of the muscle spasms of orgasm and reckless, psychotic Jim, and his heartbeat is a drum speeding them on faster.

No more words, now, Jim’s fingers wrapped tight around his own cock as he thrusts hard back against Sebastian and the gun fucks Sebastian’s mouth relentlessly. Sebastian can feel the obscene stretch of his lips around the barrel, can taste oil and powder on his tongue.

Jim is beginning to snarl on the end of each breath, arching backwards as he forgets whatever point he was trying to make and loses himself chasing orgasm. When he finally gives up and throws the gun to the side so he can brace himself against Sebastian’s chest, Seb finds the courage to grab his hips and rut up into him viciously, planting his feet against the floor to thrust harder.

Jim’s head tosses back, exposing the tendons of his throat. Sebastian sees him stiffen, his hand tensing around his cock, can visibly tell the moment Jim loses himself to everything but sensation.

The last thing Seb hears clearly before he comes is Jim.

“ _Sebastian!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to beg you for comments and kudos. Kiss. <3


	5. Afghanistan or Iraq?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft wants someone to watch Sherlock's back. Surprisingly, for once, him and Moriarty are in perfect agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my regular betas, of course, and then special thanks this time to Chris who pointed out that I couldn't use hooah because John was British. Which makes me sad, of course, because /hooah./
> 
> Please leave a comment if you have thoughts, or a kudo if you like something. I really do appreciate them. No Johnlock warning, but the characters meet in this chapter.

Afghanistan. 2009. Combat Housing Units blurring in a miasma of heat, the blades of a landing helicopter kicking up great clouds of desert dust that refuse to settle anywhere but eyes and the uncomfortable hollows between cloth and skin. It’s so hot sweat seems to evaporate like steam from the men lined up facing the landing pad, mixing with the dirt and blurring out everything more than a few feet away. Every man in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers standing at attention has his eyes squinted against the light and dust. For some reason, _no sunglasses_ had been the order; _nothing that hides your face or eyes._

Black, freshly shined shoes step off the helicopter and instantly become completely filthy dull grey shoes. The load operator ushers out a man wearing a neatly fitted suit with a pinched face and a bald spot. He’s thin, and looks hungry. More men step down behind him, taking position as a protective detail rather than equals. It’s with a certain amount of surprise that those closest to the helicopter see their Lieutenant Colonel salute the man as a superior officer, but no one dares to comment.  When the battalion is dismissed, word spreads around the compound; they’re being split up into their companies and each one of them should expect to be interviewed individually.

 _Whoever that posh fuck was in the suit,_ someone scoffs to summarize the general mood, _he’s an absolute fuckin’ nutter if he thinks he’s going to have a chat with the entire fuckin’ camp._

\---------

John’s more curious than anything, to tell the truth. Never able to hold to the perfectly reasonable advice of _head down and you won’t get shot_ , he’d wanted to know exactly who and what was going on ever since they’d been called to attention in the hottest hour of the day. In line he’d been peering over the head – alright, maybe he was peering _under the chin_ of the man next to him, but it was all the same in the end. He’d wanted a better look.

The man in the suit had walked towards them slowly, refusing to be rushed by the heat. He’d brought an _umbrella_ , of all the daft things, and had tapped it lightly against the ground with each step. The Lieutenant Colonel spoke to him politely, solicitous, more so than John had seen him in months. It was almost actively difficult to recognize their loud abrasive commanding officer when he was kissing ass that hard.

The man in the suit had looked down the line, both ways, and when his eyes had met John’s the good doctor had felt his heart speed up. It was reminiscent of the way he always felt under incoming fire. Scared, and just a little more alive than was comfortable.

He hadn’t got the feeling the man was trying to stare him down, oddly enough. Most men tried to treat eye contact like a wrestling match, or a challenge to their perceived dominance. John had kept his face open and blank and tried not to look like he was being insubordinate, and the suit had looked back blandly. John thought he’d kept eye contact a little longer than he’d spent on anyone else in the line, but he’d moved on without comment. Eventually.

\-------

John isn’t exactly surprised when he’s the first one in his company called up for review. Following one of the strange instincts that have served him well during his tour, he’s still in proper uniform when they come around to his CHU to get him. Something had told him not to dress for bed. He’s escorted to a windowless office in the command building, one he’d seen used a few times before. Mainly when the CO _needed a word,_ and it wasn’t a particularly friendly word.

There’s two chairs and a featureless steel table. The suit is in one, ankle on his knee, waiting. He indicates the other for John.

“Have a seat, Captain Watson,” he says.

John nods and sits, back even straighter and more rigid than the metal chair. “Yes sir,” he says crisply, but doesn’t salute. Honestly, protocol here is a little unclear. John imagines a few ways of addressing this situation.

_Em, sir, you seem to be a private citizen that outranks my commanding officer._

_Would you – um – would you mind terribly telling me who the bloody hell you are?_

None of them seem particularly appropriate.

“I imagine you're curious as to why you're here,” the man says, after a short and uncomfortable silence.

“Yes, sir.”

_Better safe than court-martialed._

The man across from him sighs. “Let’s get one thing clear, Captain,” he begins again, “I am neither your superior officer or interested in your _sirs,_ so for the record you may address me as Mr. Holmes and speak relatively freely.” He smiles, a little self-mocking, as if alluding to a secret irony John can’t comprehend. “I simply occupy a minor position in the British government.”

“Ah… Right,” John says, and relaxes a little in his chair. “Right. Sorry.”

Holmes slides a manila envelope across the table. John opens it automatically and scans the first page of what appears to be an unnecessarily long confidentiality agreement. Holmes draws a pen from his breast-pocket, clicks it open, and places it neatly where John can reach it. “I need your assurance that nothing we speak of will leave this room, unless under explicit orders otherwise,” he comments blandly.

“You don't need to have me sign anything for that,” John tells him, “I don't believe in rumours.” But he signs anyways, hands completely steady even though he’s beginning to feel nervous and excited. There’s something so James Bond about this whole thing, and while John has never exactly believed any of the stories of shadow governments and conspiracies he’s always had a weak spot for dangerous mysteries.

As soon as he’s signed, the manila envelope and papers are pulled back across the table. Holmes tucks them neatly into a briefcase with a tight and insincere smile at John. “I appreciate the thought, but formalities must be observed.”

He pauses again, giving John a searching look John doesn’t particularly care for. Holmes looks like he’s waiting for John to ask an obvious question, just so he can give a prepared answer. John immediately feels his stubborn streak kick into high gear, grits his teeth, and stays quiet. Immature, of course, _no YOU speak first,_ but John had been known to be petty. And the man was just so cocky and theatrical.

“I’m authorized to offer you a different assignment,” Holmes continues finally, when it’s obvious John isn’t going to ask. “Back home, alone, triple your current salary.”

John blinks.

_Well that is a hell of a lot of money._

_What exactly could an army doctor do in_ London _worth tripling his salary?_

“Sorry, I thought you just said _triple my salary._ ”

“There are several available doctors that can replace you in the company,” Holmes tells him, with the air of someone explaining a simple problem to a small child. “We’d have you out of here before the end of the week, I imagine. Your time on the job in London may be variable, but I’ll – I mean the government will – arrange for an honourable discharge as soon as it’s done. Quietly. No muss.”

 _Bit of a slip there, wasn’t it,_ you’ll _arrange for an honorable discharge._

_No, hold on, more importantly –_

“And – the job, what is that?”

Holmes makes a slight moue of distaste. “An... important person has been taken under the wing of the largest crime lord in Europe. Your job would be what I think you’d call ‘covert operations.’ Find employment with crime lord, retrieve and safeguard the personage. You’d be given carte blanche for minor, shall we say, _legal infractions_ the assignment might ask you to perform.”

John stares at him dumbfounded. _Covert operations_ are a little out of his job description, after all. He wouldn’t even be the first choice in his _company_ for a stealth operation, let alone his regiment. But before he can point this out, his curiosity apparently gets the better of him. At least that’s the case judging by the way he blurts out, “Who? And why are you so interested in extracting him?”

Holmes has a good poker face. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says, as if the family name means nothing. “And he is quite invaluable. Sherlock is the most intelligent man currently in London, which makes him dangerous. While I firmly believe he might still be a great asset to us, at the moment he is...” Briefly, Holmes looks nearly human, and his voice goes sad and quiet. “Young, and vulnerable. He has been conned rather completely, I’m afraid.”

“Oh. Right,” John stares at Holmes, feeling a twinge of sympathy. Despite the niggling voice that’s pointing out all the things that are wrong about this from the pay increase to the choice of _John Watson_ for the job, his curiosity gets the better of him again. “The job's mine, if I accept it? And I just have to go in, try to get him out and not get shot in the process?”

“That's the job, yes,” Holmes stands as he speaks, and the insincere smile is back. “I'll have the paperwork drawn up tonight. You'll be informed of your transfer later in the week, I assume.”

“Hold on – I haven’t said I’ll take it,” John protests, standing automatically as Holmes does.

“No, but you’re about to.” Holmes reaches out for his hand. John, again on autopilot, shakes. Holmes’s hands are hot, and clammy, and soft as a child’s. John considers protesting the assumption, but he’s got the queer feeling he’s already sold his soul to the devil with that handshake. “There’s only one thing before you're dismissed, John. A personal favour.”

John feels his hackles raise.

“Quite informally, you understand, I'd like regular reports on how Sherlock is doing while you're working with him. I’m prepared to pay – personally –a generous sum on top of your salary.” When John doesn’t immediately respond, gaping at him, Holmes continues, “You won’t be in contact with us officially because of the nature of the operation, but I can arrange safe lines of communication for the two of us to speak.”

John’s mouth finally starts working again. “Hold on, you mean – on top of retrieving him, for the government or – or whoever, you want me to spy. As a personal favour.”

“Yes, essentially. You’ll be ideally placed. The job will require a certain amount of closeness to Sherlock, and it should be relatively simple to use that closeness to – ”

“No,” John cuts him off without thinking. He imagines the word sounds quite similar to a triple paycheck and a job in London bursting into flames. “No. I'm glad you're concerned and if I take the job, I’ll do everything I can to bring him home safe. But I won't - if you want me to get him out of this, this _con,_ he's going to have to trust me. I won't betray that trust.”

“You haven’t asked me how much I’d pay,” Holmes says softly.

“Nope. No,” John tells him again, with a shake of his head.

_Mum always did say I would throw away my career being stubborn._

_Daft._

_For a man I haven’t even met._

“It doesn't matter what it pays. So. Um. If that's all?” Without waiting, John turns on his heel and strides for the door.

Behind him, he can hear Holmes’s umbrella tap neatly against those filthy grey shoes.

\-----------

A week later John is in London, civilian clothes, coat collar turned up against the mist. _It is,_ he thinks, _far too bloody cold for this time of year._ Of course, he’d gotten on to a private jet in the desert and gotten off at Heathrow, so there you were. It was bound to be miserable.

Despite the truly awful interview, John had somehow still ended up being transferred from the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers into a sort of military limbo under Mycroft Holmes. He wasn’t precisely attached to any division and had been told flat out that if he ran into trouble he’d be MIA; last seen in Afghanistan.

Not particularly comforting, but then, Mycroft Holmes was not a particularly comforting man.

John takes a left past a Starbucks and hits a crowd of office-workers on break. He shoves through them as politely as possible, trying not to look obviously like he’s carrying a gun or on a secret mission for the British government. Also trying not to think about how bloody ridiculous the whole situation is.

 _He’ll be at Roseanna’s Café,_ Holmes had said, _Twelve fifteen, and don’t be late because he never stays long in one place._

John had wanted badly to ask when he would be issued his exploding pen and license to kill.

_How will I know who he is?_

_You won’t, but he’ll know you. Do try your best to kill him. He’ll know if you’re faking._

If John didn’t know better he’d swear Mycroft actually _admired_ Moriarty.

For once London weather comes in handy. There’s only one customer sitting outside in the dismal half-rain, a young man sipping a giant coffee with what looks like three distinct shades of whipped cream and syrup on top. When he sees John coming he rolls his eyes and gestures to the seat opposite him.

John grips his fist tight around a handful of air to steady himself and tries to look like he doesn’t see anything and is just passing by.

 _Well if I was trying to kill him I bloody well wouldn’t do it_ now.

But he only gets two steps closer before the man sitting outside Roseanna’s sings out, “John! John Watson!” and waves energetically as if they’ve been friends for years.

John is forced to reroute and drop himself into the chair opposite Jim Moriarty, the most dangerous crime lord in Britain. Also the most flamboyant, apparently. From his bright salmon V-neck to his tight grey jeans, Jim looks stylish, effeminate, and innocuous. He’s grinning at John in open invitation. “Well, _you’re_ not very sneaky at _all_ ,” he teases, sounding the perfect mix of disappointed and flirtatious.

John would admire the performance a lot more if he didn’t know it was likely to all end in explosions.

“I - um, no. No, not really.”

“ _Someone_ told me you were coming to kill me, Johnny boy,” Jim takes another sip of his ridiculously complex looking coffee. “And I must say I’m _awfully_ disappointed you’ve done so badly.”

“No, no, I wasn't trying to kill you - must have the wrong man –“

“You're not a liar, Dr. Watson,” Moriarty snaps. The glitter-and-rainbows gay disappears in a heartbeat and there’s something altogether more deadly sitting opposite John in the rain. “Don't _even try_.”

“Right, then,” John tells him, combat instincts kicking in. Everything seems narrower, clearer, and without realizing it he sits up straighter in his chair and looks Moriarty dead in the eye. His voice becomes sure and steady. “Yes. I'm here to kill you. Suppose that means I'm a dead man, does it?”

Jim grins, flamboyant persona falling back into place like a mask, and tosses wet hair out of his eyes. “Oh, _maybe._ … _Ooor_ I might have a better use for you.”

_And this is where it gets bloody dangerous, Watson._

_Don’t get cocky._

_He has to believe who you are or you’re MIA; last seen in Afghanistan._

“A – what?”

“Well, you see, I have this little _pet_ and while he’s _adorable_ he’s also a bit _reckless._ ” Moriarty pouts, as if it’s all a terrible hardship and he’s very sad he has to deal with it. “I just worry _so much_ about him, Johnny. Why, he’s even apparently gone and got himself _killed_.” Seeing John’s face, Jim amends, “He’s not actually _dead_ as much as he’s letting everyone believe he’s dead, _again_. Terribly dramatic, but I suppose it makes him feel important…”

John doesn’t have to fake confusion at that. _Pretending to be dead? That wasn’t in the briefing –_

“So I was thinking since my army-man did such a beautiful job of taking care of _me,_ we might get one for Sherly.” Jim grins, wickedly. “But only a _little_ one.”

_Are you having a go at my height?_

“Don’t worry, we won’t be waiting long.” Jim slurps the coffee again, smearing whipped cream on his top lip. “He’s already late for his big reveal. Poor dear expects me to be so surprised when he comes back from the dead.”

John searches for something to say to that and draws several creative blanks. He opens his mouth, but before he can speak, a tall man strides out of the crowd and hovers at Jim’s shoulder, scowling.

Jim twists to smile at him. “Heard that, did you?”

Sherlock Holmes, John assumes. He’s pale and just this side of frighteningly skinny. A scarf is wrapped loosely around the slender column of his neck, exposing the deep hollow of his throat. John notices rather specifically the creamy, flawless colour of his skin, stretched tight across high cheekbones like the bones are about to break through.

When he looks down at John, his eyes are cold and mercilessly pale.

John swallows hard.

“I understand what you're doing, Jim, and I _assure_ you it is not necessary.”

The deep baritone breaks John out of whatever insane trance he’s been indulging. He coughs, blinks rapidly, and half shakes his head. “Um, I'm sorry, I'm John Watson.” John stands and extends a hand that Sherlock doesn’t take. “I don't think we've met.”

Moriarty giggles and swallows more coffee without tending to the whipped cream stuck on his lip. “Oh Sherlock, I assure _you_ I don't know what you mean. Now introduce yourself to the nice doctor.” Sherlock doesn’t. Moriarty’s voice drops to a warning growl. “Don't be _rude,_ Sherly.” They share a look, Moriarty threatening and Sherlock unimpressed. Then, without warning or any sign that the dispute has been resolved, Sherlock whirls to John and gives him an incredibly fake smile.

“Pleasure,” at Moriarty, “Can we _go?_ ”

John straightens angrily.

_Now this will just not stand._

“Hold on, what the hell are you talking about - ? What’s he doing? What’s unnecessary?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and looks supremely irritated, “Nothing that’s your concern, _thank you_.”

“Seeing as it involves me I'd say it's a bit of my concern, actually.”

“Jim may want for you to look after me,” Sherlock snaps out rapidly, leaning in to John. It makes their difference in height very tangible. John recognizes the intimidation tactic from years of self-identified alpha types trying to push around the short bloke. He refuses to give in to the impulse to step down, drawing himself up instead. “But I can tell you quite certainly that I am capable of looking after _myself._ ”

“Right, well, as much as it may surprise you, I don't work for - for him. So he doesn't tell me what to do.” _Now or never._ “You like to get yourself in dangerous situations, do you? Well, I could - watch your back. That's all. I am _not_ offering to look after you.”

_Alright, Mycroft, that’s the damn best I can do and if they throw me out now I want that honorable discharge._

For a moment John doesn’t know if it will work. Then Sherlock disengages from him, and looks over to Moriarty who grins, shrugs, and quips, “I think he could be useful.”

Sherlock looks thoughtful. John takes the chance to extend his hand again.

“Try again, shall we? John Watson.”

This time, Sherlock takes it. No smile, but then again, no _insincere_ smile either. “Sherlock Holmes. So,” with a glint in his eye, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

As if in response to Sherlock’s question, Jim stands, sighs loudly, and throws his coffee cup in the trash as he saunters off into the crowd. John doesn’t know which thing to be surprised about first. He founders, looking between the slender back of the criminal mastermind walking away and Sherlock Holmes’s intense gaze in front of him.

“Ah - is he - should we - ?”

Sherlock waves dismissively. “Yes, yes, we’ll follow him later, _now_ , Afghanistan or _Iraq._ ”

“Um.” John’s brain needs a moment to compute. When it does, he shakes his head and squints up at Sherlock. ”Afghanistan, how did you...?”

“Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists – you've been abroad but not sunbathing. Then there's the gun in the back of your jeans. You carry it surely, comfortably. Recent discharge, then. Recent discharge, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.  And – although you didn’t ask – I know you were sent to kill Jim. You came after him, but you’re not dead. He only shows interest in challenges. The next part’s easy, then, only one type of challenge that interests Jim. An assassination attempt,” Sherlock pauses, with a look of relish as he prepares to offer the best part. “Or that's what he was supposed to believe.”

John’s heart misses a beat he’s pretty sure it’s supposed to hit. “Supposed to - _what?_ ”

“You weren't sent to kill him, John,” Sherlock explains patiently, “You’re here for me.”

_Oh god._

John straightens, looks Sherlock dead in the eye, and lies confidently. “I don't know what you're talking about.” Sherlock just chuckles.

“Tell Mycroft he's wasting his time.”

“You - how'd you know that?”

“Shot in the dark. Good one, though,” Sherlock looks more alive when he’s explaining, John notices. There’s a look on his face that’s not exactly pleased, but definitely satisfied. It almost makes up for the way John is _dead_ now. Mycroft had been quite clear he couldn’t expect Sherlock to cover for him. “You’re not injured, but recently discharged nonetheless. And still carrying a standard-issue gun, they wouldn’t have let you keep _that_ with a dishonorable discharge. You’re terrified of Jim, don’t want to be near him. Body language is all wrong for a job candidate. But you offered your services anyways, interesting, that says _incentive_. Let’s keep going, shall we? You couldn’t keep your eyes off me – flattering, John, really, but you’re a bit straight for sexual interests, aren’t you? You're not after Jim, yet you _are_ after me. And someone had to bring you over from Afghanistan. All rather simple. Dear brother, interfering again, mother would be _so_ proud.”

John lets the rapid fire words sink in.

“That,” he says finally, not even caring that they might as well have been execution orders, “was _amazing._ ”

Sherlock looks like he’s gone to put his foot down on a step that’s suddenly disappeared. “I'm sorry?”

“Brilliant. Ruddy brilliant. Afghanistan from my wrists,” he shakes his head and laughs. “You. Are. A genius.”

“Well… yes, I am.”

Sherlock is staring at him like he’s grown several heads of varying levels of interest. For some reason, the look makes John hopeful for the first time. Like maybe this _won’t_ end in his violent death.

“It's not um, it's not my place to ask why you’re with him,” John says finally. “And well - you know that - that Mycroft sent me. I just want to tell you now, if you don't want me around that's - it's all fine. But, if you let me stay, I don't have to say another word about what he wants. I'll just watch your back. Just what it says on the label. That's all.”

Silence. Then, finally, “Why would you want to stay?”

John smiles at him. “I didn't ask why you're staying.”

“Touché,” Sherlock mumbles, and looks away.

“So,” John concludes, “No questions asked. And I won't push Mycroft’s agenda. Didn't like him much, anyways.” He grins at Sherlock hopefully, and although he doesn’t get a smile back he thinks he sees the corner of Sherlock’s lip twitch upwards.

_Might survive this after all._

_Who says Watson luck is always bad?_

Sherlock looks over him over one last time, and then, finally, his head bows in a slow nod. “Welcome to the empire, John,” he says, “Do try to keep up.”


	6. A Domestic Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attends breakfast at the Moriarty household, Sebastian has a nightmare, Sherlock is described as a melodramatic bat, and Jim has a sneaky idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, credit goes to [ FormerlyFortStreet ](http://formerlyfortstreet.tumblr.com/) \- while his personality is woven into both characters all the way through Twist and Growl, in this chapter I have quoted him at especial length. It could not exist without you, mon amour. My gratitude. And to Cia, who beta'd this chapter, and Mie as always etc, thank...
> 
> Johnlock status of the chapter - character interaction, no shipping.
> 
> Please if you have /anything/ to say, comments are appreciated always and kudos as well. It really gives me a reason to continue writing! (And look, we have a chapter count now. End in sight, people! Seven is already written tooo)

Tell me again.

_Sebastian takes a drag of his cigarette and gives the officer sitting across from him a dead-eyed stare._

I'm a hands-on person. The more visceral sort of people all are, because of the closeness. Muscle shifting against bone. _Jim in the hallway, eyes wide, Sebastian’s grip on his wrist so tight the skin is white and stretched to the point of tearing._ Other people might grab a handful of shirt, or hair. Why bother when I could dig my hands into his cheek? _Jim says something, not important, goading Sebastian on – his lips move but there is no sound, nothing but dead air as Sebastian pulls him closer. His thumb digs hard into Jim’s ribs, and Jim’s throat works, but there is no cry of pain._ Or ribs. Ribs twist wonderfully. _Jim falls back a little. Looking unsure, for once, an unexpected expression like thunderstorms after a long dry summer._ Then. Ribs weren’t enough to convince him I was serious. Femurs are supposed to be the hardest bones to break. It was a logical choice.

So you’re not denying it?

_Long, slow exhale._

I don’t know why I would.

_Jim scrambles free in time. He knows what amount of pressure will lead to a shattered bone and he’s felt Sebastian go for it without hesitation. He’s getting out. He makes a break for it down the hallway. Lightning fast, of course, like always. Sebastian is faster, this time._ You think I should be ashamed. I don't agree. Not on any rational basis. It's written on my cells.

Killing is?

Yes. It’s something I do casually. _Sebastian catches him at the head of the stairs and he goes down heavy, head cracking against the railing._ Like you would sip coffee or turn the page in the newspaper or walk down the street to check the mail. _Stop! Seb, get off!_ ‘Stop’ is always an unwelcome interruption. What I was doing was necessary. _Sebastian!_

Necessary?

_Please!_

‘This is what I am for’ or ‘this is why I exist.’ _Sebastian drags Jim back to the bedroom, and this time, he breaks both femurs. Jim can’t run anymore. When he screams, the noise that comes out of his mouth is dead air on the radio and feedback from speakers._ I leave behind cranial fragments instead of face. _Sick wet crunch where Jim’s jaw used to be._ We don't breathe because we enjoy breathing. We breathe because it's necessary. _Short, quick cuts. Deep, shallow, Sebastian doesn’t know, not able see them quite right either way. He carves Jim’s body up like a butcher. He can’t stop. He’s not trying to stop._ Earlier I said "It’s written on my cells", but obviously that's not a literal truth nor is it any kind of belief.

So why did you kill him?

I don’t know. _No more screams._ Genecode anomaly. _Jim isn’t moving._ My primary function. _Those luminous eyes gone dark and staring._ The glee of evolutionary success. _Sebastian, no, please, please._

_Please._

_STOP._

Sebastian comes awake like a train coming off the rails.

\---------------

The bedroom is dim and almost entirely silent. He heaves his way through several short breaths before he can calm down and remember entirely where he is. What little light comes in from the windows is almost eclipsed by the single red dot of the security system, and the bright pink numbers of Sebastian’s alarm clock; Jim’s sense of humour at work again.

Sebastian is uncomfortably aware he’s drenched in sweat and trembling. Beside him in the bed, Jim is still unmoving and asleep. It’s rare enough for him to rest that Sebastian takes care getting out to go to the bathroom and wash.

_Have to be sure to come back before he wakes up, though._

_He doesn’t like waking up alone anymore._

Hazy memories of leaving for boot camp drift through his mind. He thinks of Jim punishing him for sneaking away, and violence, and sex, and there’s a twist of nausea that makes him stay in the bathroom for longer than he needs too.

In the mirror, his face is drawn and anxious.

_Jim brought a bodyguard home for Sherlock yesterday._

_Am I worried?_

_Jim said he wasn’t a threat, and Jim would know._

Sebastian pushes off the sink and goes back to bed. If he has other dreams, he doesn’t remember them.

\--------------------

The next morning Sherlock sweeps into the kitchen like a great melodramatic bat while Moran is attempting to make breakfast. Seb is hoping that the pancakes he’s just on the verge of flipping won’t end up lodged in his nose like the eggs did, but there’s never any guarantee of safety. Jim is perched on a stool at the island, tapping away merrily on his phone. He’s killed twenty-six people so far today and hasn’t bothered to get out of his pajamas.

“Moran,” Sherlock says by way of acknowledgement, with all the imperious condescension Sebastian knows and wants to kill him for.

“Get out of here, addict,” Seb snaps at him, looking back at what he’s cooking, “You don’t eat.” As he glances down he notices a short grey shadow clutching a tea mug behind Sherlock. He doesn’t bother with a second look.

_So that’s the pet Jim’s gotten Sherlock._

_He looks like what would happen if a mouse and a bulldog had babies._

_Small. Quiet. Offensively British._

“John does. So let him make his tea.” Sherlock waves his hand theatrically. Sebastian is _not_ in the mood. He’s sleeping bad and Sherlock is hard to endure on _good_ days. Jim, on the other hand, looks up and grins with all the eager anticipation of a four year old girl going to the latest Barbie movie.

_Breakfast and a show._

Sebastian flips his pancakes, presses them down with a satisfying sizzle. “Feed your pet mouse somewhere else,” he growls.

“ _Sorry_?” He hears, somewhere behind and about a foot down from where Sherlock had spoken.

He can almost hear the smile in Jim’s voice. “John's part of the _family_ , Sebby, play _nice._ ” Sebastian opens his mouth to loudly swear, but before he can Sherlock jumps in.

“We're not family and this isn't your kitchen, Moran. I should remind you that Jim and I _pay_ for the food you're eating.”

_He did_ not.

“The money you make that _doesn't_ go back into cocaine, you mean. I'm almost done. You can _wait_.” Sebastian slides the lid on the frying pan, tosses his spatula to the counter, and folds his arms. Sherlock’s eyes narrow, and they exchange death glares over the stove. Jim looks _delighted,_ but it’s hard to miss the way Sherlock’s pet goes white when drugs are mentioned. Moran watches the way his eyes dart up to Sherlock, notes how his brow knits in concern.

_Oh. Didn’t anyone tell you?_

_Point for me. Or against Sherlock. Same thing._

He smiles at Sherlock suddenly, showing his canines. Sherlock’s expression darkens further, understanding what just happened. Of course, one of the benefits to living with geniuses is that they never miss your little victories. Sebastian holds out his hand for the mug John’s been clutching. He can afford to be magnanimous. After a moment’s hesitation, it thumps into his palm. He doesn’t bother to look at John, just turns and goes for the kettle.

“And um - you are?” comes the unfamiliar voice from behind him. Sebastian ignores him perfectly.

_You’ll be dead soon and you’re not important now._

“Sebastian Moran,” Sherlock supplies in a sardonic drawl. “Jim Moriarty’s kept man. Of sorts.”

“I'm not a _kept man_ , addict. I work too.” Sebastian shoots a glare over his shoulder. “I could demonstrate what I do if you’ve forgotten.” Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

“I've seen your so-called _work._ That assassination was unacceptable. I would have been able to gather enough evidence for an arrest within five minutes of walking onto the scene.”

“Well you’re not with the police _,”_ Sebastian tells him, as the kettle boils and he starts angrily making tea. “And I’m a _sniper._ You know what success rates are for catching long-range spree killers?”

Faintly, from behind him, he hears John ask Jim, “Are they always like this?”

“I'm afraid they don't like each other much,” comes Jim’s reply. Sebastian can feel Jim’s eyes on his back like a caress. “Sebastian is jealous and Sherly is a sociopath. Makes for interesting breakfasts…”

“I don’t know why you got so obscenely _close_ then –“ Sherlock starts loudly over both of them, refusing to let the argument go. Sebastian visualizes breaking the teacup on his skull, boiling water pouring over his face, smashing fingers into powder with the pancake pan.

“Because I _wanted_. Didn't you see _anything_? Or can't you deduce why I did it from _Jim's_ reaction?” He hauls the fridge open like it’s been personally offensive, grabs cream and then goes for the spice cabinet and sugar.

“Oh –“ John interrupts politely, “I take –“

Sebastian is forced to address him for the first time. He rounds on poor John like the tiger Jim says he is. “ _I don't care!”_ he barks, making John’s jaw tighten in defensive response.

If anyone objects, Sebastian doesn’t hear. Not under Sherlock’s loud snort and his ever-ready rapid-fire retort. “Sentiment is for _fools_ and each time you cut Jim open you weaken him. Not to mention your sloppy jobs are going to get you arrested, which adds to the chances that you’re going to land the two people in the house with actual brains to speak of in jail or _shot._ You’re nothing but a _liability._ ”

There’s dead silence.

_Point for him._

_Goddamn that fucking junkie._

Sebastian throws sugar and spices into the tea with quiet fury, getting equal portions in the mug and on the counter. It’s better than getting into a fistfight with Sherlock in the kitchen. He’s pretty sure that Jim wouldn’t tolerate that.

When Sebastian’s more or less done he shoves the powdered mug at John and tells Sherlock sharply, “If he doesn't like the way I make it I'll make more tea. And buy your solution for a _year_. And dance a _jig_.”

“See that you _do._ ” Sherlock spins with an impressive flair of his robe and stomps back upstairs.

Jim’s giggling.

_I have a fucking headache._

\-----------

Sebastian slams a plate of pancakes down in front of Jim, fresh berries on top bouncing with the force of the impact. Jim looks at it, makes a face, and sets his phone reluctantly aside. Sebastian mimics the face back at Jim to make him laugh. Jim is still grinning as he picks up his fork. His eyes stay steady on Sebastian while he licks strawberries from the tines like a kitten, syrup staining his lips a bright vital red.

“I don't like him,” Sebastian says.

“You don't like anyone.”

“I... respect Sherlock.” Another strawberry disappears between Jim’s lips, leaving a thin speck of juice behind. His tongue darts out to swipe it away, and he smiles.

“You only tolerate him because I force you to.” Jim sounds bored by the very idea of it all.

“Well, he’s a poncy fucking git.” Sebastian shrugs, and fetches his own plate of pancakes. While Jim picks his like a bird, Sebastian eats with all the concentrated energy of a large man working a physical job. Halfway between mouthfuls, he asks, “Who's the little rodent you've given him?”

Luckily he remembers to swallow first. Jim had a _chat_ with Sebastian about the table manners he picked up in Afghanistan.

“Sherlock’s little soldier boy,” Jim drones, examining a mouthful of pancakes before he deigns to eat it, “Isn’t he adorable? _Doctor_ Watson. Maybe he’ll be helpful. Sherlock spends all his time bent over that his _experiments_ and _that_ can't _possibly_ be _healthy._ ” Another dainty bite. Sebastian has managed three in the same time frame. He makes a mental note to slow down before Jim notices. “Maybe he’ll stop scaring the clients if we give him something new to _play_ with.”

Jim’s voice is doing the awful dull thing it does when he doesn’t care enough about the subject of conversation. It’s one of his warning signs, now. Sebastian is being ordinary and boring.

_‘Talk about something else or I’ll hurt you.’_

“Mmm,” Sebastian decides on, because it seems safer than anything else.

“Al _though_ ,” Jim says, around another bite of pancakes. “I do _believe_ they’re trying to _hide_ something from me.”

\--------------

As Sebastian clears the dishes John Watson appears back in the doorway and Seb gets a second look at him. _The man stupid enough to hide something from Jim._ On further inspection he becomes at least a fraction more interesting. What Sebastian took for fat the first time now reveals itself as the bad effect of an ill-fitting jumper; underneath it the smaller man is muscular, built low and strong and enduring.

Sebastian supposes he might have to take Jim seriously about dressing nicely from now on.

“Sorry,” John says, expression open and sincere. “Am I interrupting?”

_You’re living in the wrong house for a face like that._

_We’re going to eat you alive, Doctor Watson._

Jim looks up from his phone, where he’s been buried since Sebastian cleared the dishes about ten minutes ago. Sebastian is unsure what his body count is now. “Oh _no,_ ” he says, with a razor-edged smile. “Come on in.”

The good doctor gives Jim a polite little smile that grates over Sebastian like nails on a chalkboard and takes a small corner of the sink to wash his dish. “Sorry,” he repeats, self-consciously, “Sherlock wasn't feeling - ah - very sociable.”

“Give him some time,” Jim advises, looking down again.

_International symbol for ‘your time is up and the genius is no longer paying attention.’_

Sebastian almost feels bad for John.

“I'm - I feel like a right idiot, is all.”

_Only in comparison to them._

_You should have seen me when I met Jim_.

There are times when Seb swears Jim is telepathic. As Watson dries his mug and places it neatly in the strainer, Sebastian hears a polite voice from behind Jim’s screen ask, “What were you going to say?” for all the world like Sebastian had started the sentence out loud. Sebastian huffs.

_No fucking privacy._

“Should have seen me,” he tells John reluctantly. Watson watches him with compassionate, attentive eyes that make Sebastian want to squirm out of his own skin. “When I met Jim. I tried to lie. He walked through the secrets I'd been so careful about keeping like they were cobwebs.”

John goes bright pink. Something in Sebastian’s brain, the part always looking for a kill, lights up green.

_Prey, target, mark –_

_So you ARE hiding something._

“Oh, you mean - no, I don’t have any, uh, secrets. I just - he’s a sociopath, after all…”

Over at the island, Jim looks up from his phone. His mouth is curled in a lazy grin that sends an electric chill down Sebastian’s spine. “Oh, I think we both know that’s not quite true,” he purrs. That smile is the one he reserves for delicious secrets, for murder and complete control and Sebastian.

“I thought I might just take him at his word, actually,” John says, but Sebastian barely hears it. He’s drawn over to Jim’s side by that challenging smirk. Jim’s arm runs around his waist and by the tension in Jim’s fingers Sebastian can tell Jim’s caught the same scent he has.

_Prey. Target. Victim._

_There’s a weakness here to exploit and Jim’s found it._

“Well,” Jim says politely, with an air of ending the conversation, “If you ever _do_ find out if he has a heart, John... let me know.”

Maybe John isn’t as dumb as Sebastian thinks, because his expression takes on a guarded air. He thanks Jim with a weak smile, and leaves the room without making any sudden movements.

Jim’s fingers dig painfully in to Sebastian’s ribs. He goes to his knees obediently and is rewarded by a nip at his earlobe. “Tonight,” Jim breathes, “Let's give Watson something _dangerous_ to do.” He bites again, lower down, marking Sebastian.

Seb fights to keep his head.

“What sort of thing?”

“Mmm,” around another bite, lower, harder. Jim’s going to draw blood again and Sebastian is craving it already. “Something where he'll be shot at. Not by you. Someone _expendable_. Some one that's _royally pissed me off_.” His tone goes musing, and his mouth is back at Sebastian’s ear. “Don't we have a money launderer on my blacklist?”

Jim’s fingers trail up Sebastian’s spine to accompany the rising tone of his voice on the question. “Yes,” Sebastian tells him, around the thick pulse in his throat.

“Get on it,” Jim murmurs, and drops a disposable phone in Sebastian’s lap. His fingers twist brutally in Seb’s hair when there isn’t immediate movement in response. “ _Now.”_

“You’re – _fuck –_ being a little distracting.”

“Oh, Tiger,” Jim giggles, as his mouth starts to work back down Sebastian’s neck, “You can schedule and have me be a distraction. I have _full_ confidence in you.”


	7. I Once Was Born to Be Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I used to shiver like that -(I have no heat, I told you!) I used to sweat - (I got a cold -) Uh huh, I used to be a junkie. (Now and then I like to -) Uh huh (Feel good...)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock warning for this chapter; building up to it.
> 
> Or maybe not, you know, I've been debating _not_ actually having Johnlock in this at all. Or maybe just not explicit Johnlock? What do you guys think? 
> 
> Anyways. Thanks to Mie, and Cia, as always, and - please. _Please._
> 
> Comment or kudo.
> 
> I really appreciate knowing what you like, what you don't like, if you've been reading for long or just picked it up - like, anything. Feedback makes me glow and is one of the things I like best about writing. 
> 
> To those of you sticking it out till the bitter end - we're almost there! And jesus have I got a finale for _you_

The first time John sees Sherlock high is the first time Sherlock saves John’s life.

Of course, that’s only if he doesn’t count the way Sherlock constantly avoids telling Moriarty who John is really working for.

In either case, it’s the third night he’s spent in the house. He’s been holed up in his bedroom practically the entire time, avoiding the two serial murderers that alternate between occupying the kitchen and making a frankly appalling amount of noise in their bedroom. John tries not to think about the times he hears Moran _scream_. Frankly, he just doesn’t want to know.

Late that night John sneaks himself a cup of tea, fumbling his way up the walls of the staircase on his way back because he’s too scared to turn on the light. There’s a thin bar of firelight that crosses the hallway outside Sherlock’s room that makes him pause, more because of the oddity of the door being open than anything else. It’s usually firmly shut, spurning all chances of contact with the outside world. When John pauses ( _not_ spying) to look through the barely ajar door, he catches a thin glimpse of a prone body lying spread out on a couch. Pale fingers dangle limply against the thick red carpet. The fire in the hearth casts deep shadows over the tendons of Sherlock’s wrist.

All of his instincts as a doctor and soldier seem to kick in at once. Before John knows quite what he’s doing, the door is open and he’s standing over Sherlock’s unresponsive form, heart-beat pounding in his ears. The heat from the fire hits him like a wall.

“Sherlock?” he tries softly, setting his tea down on a convenient end-table. Half of it spills over onto the wood and the porcelain of the mug clinks against a small metal box engraved with the twisting snakes of a caduceus. It’s terrifyingly loud against the stillness of the room.

No response from Sherlock.

John licks his lips nervously. He hesitates a moment, staring, and then makes up his mind in a quick snap and reaches down to that skeletal wrist, feeling for a pulse. He’s got just enough time to register the feeling of hot dry skin under his fingers before a bony grip snatches his hand away and Sherlock’s eyes are intensely, abruptly open.

Sherlock stares up at John like there’s no one else in the world. There’s no colour in his eyes, just a thin rim of grey between black and milky white.

John, embarrassingly, yelps.

_Hopefully that wasn’t as loud as I think it was._

_Just because it’s quiet in here, right?_

He goes still to avoid spooking Sherlock, not trying to pull away from the vise-like grip. “I thought you were –“ he swallows, unsure exactly how to phrase _I thought you were dead._ “I was just checking if you were alright.” He glances nervously downwards to where Sherlock’s got him caught.

Down Sherlock’s pale forearms, smooth skin marred by track-marks in two perfect, parallel lines.

 _Oh,_ John thinks, with the sound of a tumbler falling into place.

“Fine,” Sherlock slurs at John, that deep baritone sounding dreamy and blurred like he’s speaking underwater. He rolls upwards in one smooth movement, pulling John closer. John stumbles forward, stopped by two light fingers on his face. Sherlock’s eyes flick back and forth rapidly, scanning him. John licks his lips, tries to think of something to say, and comes up with several helpful images of blank white walls.

“Um,” John tries, intelligently, “Guess I’ll be going then, shall I?”

Hot fingers trace over his cheek to the line of his nose, up to his brow. Down again, along the ridge of his eye socket, to his jaw. John swallows hard, and Sherlock strokes down his Adam’s apple, eyes falling shut as his gaze follows his fingers.

“You’re a wealth of information, John Watson,” he says, voice slow and careful.

“Em,” John founders. “Right. And what sort of information might that be?” For the first time, he tries to pull away. Evidently that is _not allowed._ A thin trickle of nervousness makes its way down the back of his neck.

Sherlock hums indistinctly. The firelight licks dreamy sparks into his eyes, settles across his tangled hair like a crown. His fingers trail down John’s neck, to his shirt collar, where they dig into a fist and John finds himself falling, surreally, forward.

Sherlock pins him to the couch like a specimen for dissection.

“There's - there's been a misunderstanding,” John stammers, “I'm not - I mean, I'm flattered –“ he tries to push at Sherlock and gain some space, with the result that Sherlock straddles him.

_Oh bloody hell –_

_This is not happening._

_Jesus, he’s – inebriated. He’s not thinking right._

He shoves at Sherlock again, harder, but thoughts of broken necks and loose limbs tumbling backwards into fire make him restrain himself. The controlled force isn’t enough and Sherlock takes no notice. He bends his head to John’s chest and takes a deep breath, dark curls bobbing as he inhales. John thinks rapid fire of all the things he must smell of to Sherlock.

_Tea, cheap laundry detergent from the cleaners, deodorant I got at the shop because it was closest and I needed some even though it’s not my brand and smells not quite as good, sweat –_

_And fear –_

_I wonder what it all means to him –_

Now is not the time to ask. John’s chest heaves and Sherlock works downwards, feeling the fabric of John’s jumper between two slender fingers before running his palm down John’s chest over it, slow and steady. John can’t tell if he’s deducing or drowning in sensation. The line between the two might blur, when Sherlock is strung out. And Sherlock is very strung out now, eyes caught in a disturbing contrast between entirely focused and completely dazed.

The silence makes it all worse. Sherlock seems like less of a man, more of a machine or some dreadful monster from a fairy tale with no human compassion in him. John’s chest heaves again, and his pushes take on nightmarish weakness.

He finds himself caught in those sparks of fire in Sherlock’s eyes, searching them for comfort. He lets his hands fall to his sides, on the couch, and grits his teeth.

“Right – “ He chokes out around whatever mad nervousness has got a grip on his throat, “Right –“ Sherlock goes for the bottom rim of John’s jumper and his fever-bright eyes are hidden by a stray lock of hair. John takes courage from that. “Sherlock - if you're going to do this, at least… talk to me. I can't - when you're silent, I just can’t. You’re going to have to say something, do you understand?”

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate in his motion and John wonders with another lurch of nervousness if he’s just going to keep going in that dreadful silence. Hot dry fingers slide under the waist of John’s jumper and begin to push it upwards.

“I don't need to speak to deduce,” Sherlock says abruptly, off-hand. “Not like this. Hold still.”

John counts to ten to calm himself, then does it again when the first time isn’t enough. “Sherlock,” he forces out between his teeth, “I was hired to keep you safe and if you keep on touching me in bloody silence I’m going to hit you so hard I swear to _God_ I’ll break your nose.”

Sherlock seems to consider this for a moment, a hair’s breadth pause before he pushes the jumper further up to look at the muscles over John’s ribs. “Why do you hide how fit you are under shapeless jumpers?” he asks, words coming out too fast so they jumble over each other in a messy slur.

“Can't be bothered to go shopping,” John tells him with a nervous chuckle. Sherlock’s voice distracts from the situation almost too well. He begins to watch, surreptitiously, Sherlock’s eyes. Looking for more than the glint of the fire.

_No easy thing you’ve been doing to yourself._

_Even someone as brilliant as you can only stay on top of the drugs for so long._

He’s distracted enough that he yelps _again_ when Sherlock’s questing fingers slide down towards his waistband. “Excuse me!”

Sherlock pauses to look up at John with an expression of desperate frustration. “I need _information_ ,” he snaps. He’s having a hard time focusing his eyes right, looking somewhere at the air between them rather than down into John’s face. “I need it _now,_ John, _RIGHT NOW._ ” The frantic cadence of his voice notches John one step further up his private ladder of concern. While he hesitates, Sherlock goes for the fastenings of John’s trousers.

 _Alright, that’s enough._ John grabs for Sherlock’s wrist, a protest forming on his tongue.

But when they touch he realizes the doped man’s hands have started to shake and his protest withers up completely. Sherlock’s fingers are so unsteady he can’t get the belt buckle and when John pulls his hand away, it only gets worse. Tremors spread up his limbs like an epileptic fit. By the time they reach his frail shoulders, there’s something frightened in his eyes.

“John,” he says, in a small toneless voice like a child asking for help, and then, “John,” again, even quieter.

_Oh god._

John watches Sherlock tip into the edge of a bad trip like watching someone step off the side of a bridge. The addict shakes violently, managing with a jerky motion to rip his hand away from John in order to clutch himself tight at both elbows. John watches Sherlock wrap his arms around himself like he’s holding all the disparate pieces of his body together by sheer force of will. As though without his death grip on his bony elbows his lungs will split him wide open in the action of breathing. On either side, Sherlock’s thumb rests just above the dark mark of a track.

_I have never seen anyone look so alone._

Sherlock leans forward, and at the same time, John reaches up and pulls him down. What Sherlock can’t reach with his own hands, John covers, completing the business of holding Sherlock together with his own embrace.

“It’s not enough,” Sherlock’s lips move nearly without sound, pressed so close to John’s ear that John hears him anyways. It sounds like a confession, some weakness that he can only expose when the drugs have him entirely. “I can’t think, John, _I can’t think_.”

John says something, he doesn’t know what, shapes meaningless syllables in a comforting tone. John can treat a drug abuse case. He’s done it before, even. He can prescribe charcoal and call nurses and offer methadone with the best of them, but when Sherlock folds over into his arms he doesn’t think of doing anything but holding on until the shakes stop. Something in him aches for the genius that can’t think, and as Sherlock leans into his chest and takes deep breaths and trembles, John is going to hold him together.

They’re there a long time. But when the heat from the fire is beginning to be uncomfortable, and Sherlock has gone still and calm, there’s a high pitched giggle in the doorway.

“And what is going on _here_ ~?”

John jerks violently, head twisting to find Moriarty standing there, one eyebrow cocked and a wide smile spread across his face. Sherlock sits up with a costly air of dignified calm, running one hand through his hair. Rather than straightening it out, the end result is he looks even more mussed.

“I’m studying him,” Sherlock says, and John is relieved to hear his voice come out steady.

_You’re alright, then, thank god._

“Oh, of _course_ you are,” Moriarty purrs. His eyes drift down to John. John doesn’t try to move, and he doesn’t try to speak. He’s pinned under Sherlock anyways, and there is literally nothing he can say now that won’t give Moriarty something to use against him.

Sherlock takes on his disinterested character like slipping into a mask. “If you don't mind,” he says, with a nod to the door.

“Not at all!” Moriarty grins. John thinks he might be the only person alive that would not only ignore Sherlock’s pointed _go away,_ but also consider it a cue to step further into the room and perch on the couch by John’s head _._ “Continue.”

Sherlock just stares at Moriarty. John images the quicksilver thoughts streaking behind Sherlock’s eyes.

_This is a game and I have no idea who’s winning._

“Get out, Jim,” Sherlock growls finally.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Moriarty smiles back. “Deduce him for me, go on. Tell me _all about_ the good doctor.”

On the side where Moriarty can’t see, John's hand finds Sherlock and squeezes hard. He knows Sherlock will recognize the plea even if he keeps all fear off his face. It’s hard to hide any reaction from someone who’s straddling you, and even if he’s fighting it John can feel himself tense up.

_Don’t tell him, oh God, let me live –_

There must have been a pause, because Moriarty snaps “That wasn’t a _request!_ ” and Sherlock licks his lips nervously before replying.

“Army doctor,” he says, meeting Moriarty’s gaze directly. “Returned from Afghanistan. Very strong sense of morals. He’d kill if he deemed it necessary and not a moment before. Strong despite his size; he’s hiding what he can do behind these god-awful jumpers.” The criminal’s eyes bore into Sherlock like Moriarty is visualizing peeling the skin from him. “He’s not actually harmless at all, although I doubt you’d convince him to admit it. Fiercely loyal, of course, the military saw to _that_. Believes in the best of people unless given reason to think otherwise.”

There’s a tell-tale flick of his eyes to John at the end, finally avoiding Moriarty’s gaze. “Are you sure that's all?”

“That’s it, yes,” Sherlock snaps, “This _is_ my job, Jim, I am _aware_ of how to do it.” The emotional response comes off forced and John’s grip tightens on Sherlock again.

_You’re a bloody terrible liar when you’re high._

_But if I could say anything it would be thank you._

_That was brilliant and so brave even though we’re dead anyways._

John nearly has a heart attack when Jim giggles again and hops off the couch, singing, “ _Play nice!_ ” over his shoulder as he leaves the room.

_How in the bloody hell…_

_He can’t have swallowed that._

They sit in stunned silence for a moment, Sherlock on top of John, before John remembers to speak.

“Thank you,” he says, and because that seems inadequate, “Thank you. I owe you…” Sherlock blinks down at him in wide-eyed surprise like he’s forgotten John was there at all. “I would have been dead, Sherlock, I owe you my life.”

That’s enough to make Sherlock pull away entirely, throwing himself in front of the fire to pace.

“Get out,” he says shortly. John pushes himself upright.

“R-Right,” he stammers as he stands and stares at Sherlock for a moment; the tall man stalks back and forth in front of the fire in viciously exact motions. Four steps forward and a sharp turn on the left heel before four steps back. His hands are wrapped around his elbows, again. Thumb on each side just above the final track mark.

When he turns the third time and John is still standing there, he snaps, “Out!” again, louder, and points at the door.

This time, John leaves without question.

\--------------

Maybe they didn’t get away as scot-free as John thought originally, though, because the next morning when he goes downstairs Moriarty is talking to Sherlock in the hallway.

“I have a job for you, dear,” John hears, as he hesitates around the corner of the living room.

“I'm not interested.”

“ _Not_ a request.”

John looks down at his hands wrapped around his tea-mug, and thinks, _I owe him my life_ like chains around his wrists.

“When?”

“ _Now._ Get moving.”

“...Text me the details.”

\--------------

When John sneaks upstairs to grab his gun and follow Sherlock out of the house, he leaves his tea mug in the living room.

Jim traces the still-warm rim with his index finger.

 _Go get him, Johnny-boy,_ he thinks, and licks moisture from his fingerprint like cream.


	8. Knight to Abandoned Warehouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes on a mission for Jim and John sneaks out to follow. Sebastian's got suspicions, Jim's found something that doesn't bore him for once, and fingernails are involved in a way that screams /visceral horror./

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some gore and minor Johnlock - but it's still mostly friendship and jesus I think I might have to take this out of the Johnlock tag. It's always been a MorMor story.
> 
> There's a perspective shift partway through but I think it should be obvious where and to whom that shift is.
> 
> Chapter nine is already written! So, there's that. Chapter Ten is the dramatic climax we've all been waiting for and then eleven is an epilogue where Mycroft FINALLY shows up again. Thanks to Mie and Cia again, as always, blah blah blah.
> 
> Please comment and kudo because I cannot write this without feedback seriously it's too depressing.

It’s raining.

As John’s cab follows Sherlock’s through the city, the water on the windshield washes London a pale and dreary grey. John peers blearily through the drops at the dark head visible in the backseat three cars forward, and tries not to worry too much.

Sherlock pulls up in front of a small warehouse, because it’s _always_ a warehouse for things like this. He slams the car door and sweeps inside without glancing around. John’s cabbie parks far enough back that he won’t be seen by unfriendly eyes, and pulls away in a hurry once money changes hands.

John’s left on the sidewalk, pulling his collar up against the rain with his habitual tug as he surveys the building. _Bloody London weather._ The warehouse appears, for all intents and purposes, completely abandoned. As the cabbie turns the corner out of sight John feels a spike of nervousness – a primal response to being left completely alone in a hostile place. But he thinks of Sherlock and pushes it down, and finds a door around the side where he can enter unnoticed.

Inside it is hot and dark and the thick smell of chemicals is heavy on the air; like being inside the stomach of some obscenely large, diseased beast. There are no windows, and the electric lights are woefully inadequate. Sherlock’s voice echoes against the concrete floor and walls, as he addresses some unseen crowd.

“I’m looking for Mattieu Scott.”

There’s the faint clink of machinery and the sounds of people shifting in uncomfortable silence. Clothing rustles. Someone coughs. John creeps his way forward in the darkness, staying out of sight.

Between two large pipes he catches a glimpse of Sherlock, arms crossed, expression haughty and disdainful.  Two low tables run in front of him, covered in a fine white powder. Factory workers look up from their never-ending job, hands stilled in cheap plastic gloves.

“Oh come on,” Sherlock says, and John moves forward again, losing sight of him. “I know he’s –“

Another gap between equipment on the floor and John is just in time to see Sherlock struck from behind with the butt of a gun.

There’s a thick wet _thunk._

John shouts, immediately, drawing attention away from whatever harm is planned for Sherlock. He has his gun in his hand without being able to remember drawing it. Stepping out onto the factory floor, he sees his hand raise, gripping the pistol without waver or hesitation.

“Get back from him, now!” He barks, with the assured tone of someone holding a loaded firearm. When the first thug is stupid enough to grab for him he whirls, weight of the gun making nose-shattering contact with the man’s head.  Shooting isn’t an option, not until he and Sherlock are in danger of an immediate death.

John Watson is a highly moral man.

The thug stumbles back with a stunned moan and John turns in time to see Sherlock being dragged limply by the ankles through a dark door and down a short hall. John’s mouth opens on a shout of protest, and, distracted, he misses the approach of the third man.

Big as a two-story brick farmhouse and weighing probably twice as much, he collides into John from the side, smelling strongly of sweat and vinegar. John is crushed back against the pipes on the factory wall, one particularly unforgiving length of metal bouncing against the bone of his shoulder blade like a – well, rather like a lead pipe, come to think of it.

“Fuck –“

He’s disarmed despite his best efforts to remain firmly attached to his weapon. Upon closer inspection – and not by choice – John decides the smell of the mammoth pinning him is closer to pickles than vinegar.

“Who’re you then?” The thug snaps. He gets up close and personal for threatening effect. With his breath, it’s impressively successful.

“Nobody,” John grits back, trying not to breathe through his nose, “I'm - nobody.”

“I think you're lyin'. I think you're that posh gits friend.” John can nearly hear the individual cogs of the man’s brain grind to life. It’s a slow and painful process. “Sent to infiltrate or some shit.” He hauls John away from the wall, breath like acid rain spattering over John’s face. One of the factory workers shoves a chair into the empty space between tables. John takes a moment to have a loud coughing fit. “I jes’ hope for yer sake that yer _not._ ”

The intimidation could not be more obvious if the man had held up a sign saying, _I am a goon. I am a threatening goon. These are my threats._ John doesn’t start to _actually_ worry until there’s a length of very thick chain being secured around his wrists. The big man secures it by the simple method of bending the metal into the chair so John can’t move. It’s a feat of straight-forward brute strength made no less impressive than the stupidity of bypassing locks.

“Mr. Scott ain't gonna be real happy with ya,” Pickle-breath growls in John’s face, and slouches over to an office door opposite the opening Sherlock had been dragged through. One by one, shapeless in blue plastic overalls, the factory workers stand and begin to file out the back of the room. One of them drags the unconscious guard out with them.

”Oi - hey!” John shouts after him, “What are you going to do?” There’s no response. John tries again, louder, rocking the chair against the ground to make noise. “HEY!”

The guard reappears, but this time he’s trailing a well-dressed man with a silver tie pin and hair that’s just starting to grey at the temples. The guard who had disposed of Sherlock completes the menacing trio.

“Evening,” When he speaks, the well-dressed man’s voice is as deep and rich as the blue of his suit.

John inclines his head politely, trying to keep his face from looking hostile. Who knows if he succeeds, and honestly, who cares. “Evening. Right. And who are you then?”

“Not really important,” the man purrs.   _Mr. Scott,_ John assumes. He wonders again how many James Bond clichés he’s going to run through in Mycroft’s employment. It seems like _sophisticated villain_ is in the bag. “Did Moriarty send you?” Scott asks him softly.

There’s a series of dull pounds in the hallway. Sherlock, throwing himself against the door of whatever prison they’ve given him.

“Um – no,” John lies, rather unsuccessfully. “No, he didn't.”

One of Scott’s polished shoes taps impatiently against the concrete floor. “I really don't want to have to hurt you, so, tell the truth. Please.”

“I'm not lying. Moriarty didn't send me.” Well, that much is true. In a roundabout way.

“You're forcing my hand, I'm afraid.” Scott crosses the distance between them to stand above John. He pulls a neat pair of gloves out of his pocket and tugs them on his hands in an elegant, fastidious motion. John tightens his jaw, and says nothing. Scott sighs, disappointed, then without warning whips a vicious right hook across John’s cheekbone.

There’s a moment of ringing silence, and John feels his head loll forward onto his chest. He takes several deep breaths through his nose.

_Well, that’s how it’s going to be, then._

_No problem._

_I’m a soldier, after all._

John’s mouth sets in a hard line and he glares upwards, saying nothing. The man standing over him smiles and hits him again, harder.

Square in the nose.

John’s eyes water. Another set of high-velocity knuckles catches him on the jaw and rocks the chair back. The pickle-breathed thug leers at him over Scott’s shoulder. John grunts, feeling his face begin to swell with bruising.

“Tough, are you?” John hopes Scott isn’t expecting a response. The next punch sets his ears to ringing again, and he’s going to have a spectacular black eye. When he’s capable of focusing his eyes properly, John leans forward and spits blood onto Scott’s shiny black shoes with perfect accuracy.

“I did hope to avoid this,” the silver-templed man tells John. He strolls over to the workbenches. Each step is measured. He’s clearly taking his time, giving John space to think about giving in. John grits his teeth.

_Not that easy, I’m afraid._

_I wonder if Sherlock is getting himself free._

_Maybe he can – no, better not to think of rescue –_

He steels himself, resolving to give them nothing. Scott draws something off the table with a thin sound of scraping metal. The weight of it drops his hand down, pulling his shoulder into a forced slump. When he grabs John’s wrist, over the chain, the metal instrument becomes visible. Thick, rusted pliers, teeth still encrusted with chemical powder from the tables. Scott waves them under John’s nose with a sickening grin.

John stares back at him impassively.

When Scott slides the teeth of the pliers under his fingernail John can’t help a frantic surge of panic. He hopes, rather futilely, he won’t embarrass himself by screaming.

His fingernail rips out and free with minimal effort on Scott’s part. For John, it feels as if the end of his finger explodes; a twig, fed into a wood chipper. Splintered fragments of pain spiral upwards from his first knuckle and for a few horrified seconds John almost thinks he’s lost the digit entirely.

He doesn’t remember screaming – not really – but he can hear his own ragged pants echoing off the factory walls when the pain recedes. The sounds that force their way past his lips don’t seem to belong to him. It’s almost as if they’re the result of a horrifying thing that’s happened to someone else, like it has nothing to do with him. One of the men behind Scott whistles, low and impressed. John’s fingernail clicks quietly as it falls to the floor.

“So,” Scott says. “Are you going to tell me the truth now?”

_Well, no._

John gives himself a few precious moments to recover by mouth-breathing heavily, pretending to be incapable of speech.

_Time to prepare myself for the next one, oh Jesus._

There’s a series of muffled bangs from the office where Sherlock is held, but John doesn’t allow himself to hope for rescue.

“Well?” Scott prompts finally. “Answer me or I'll take another.”

“I didn't - I didn't come on Moriarty's orders.”

Scott shakes his head and wedges the pliers under John’s ring-finger's nail. Pickle-breath is leering.

“Oh god,” John says helplessly, half a sob, but he won't say "stop."

“Tell me why you're here,” Scott commands again.

”I came - for Sherlock,” John tells him.

_Just a few more seconds of rest._

_Just a few more breaths without pain and I’ll be able to bear it._

“And who is Sherlock?” Scott asks him politely, with a gentle tug on the pliers as if to remind John the consequence for delay.

_Just a few more breaths and I can bear another -_

**CRACK!**

The loud noise startles Scott, making him jump. The pliers jerk John’s fingernail a little more insistently and John takes several steadying breaths through his nose in such quick succession that his head begins to feel light.

Scott looks over at Pickle-breath and the other guard. “Go check on that noise,” he snaps. They exchange a look and move into the hallway where John had last seen Sherlock.

“The -  the posh bloke –“ John gabbles quickly, hoping to distract them both from whatever Sherlock was doing. “He owes me money –“

It works, for the moment. Scott’s attention swivels back to him. “Oh?” He encourages, wiggling the pliers just a little deeper under John’s nail.

“I - yes!” John says, loudly, to cover a series of thunks just out of sight. “I don't know a damn thing about Moriarty!”

Scott hums noncommittally and his grip on the pliers tightens. John looks up over his wide-seamed shoulder just in time to see Sherlock skid into the room. There’s a look of open desperation on Sherlock’s face, his mouth slightly open, his pale eyes wide.

 _Almost in time,_ John thinks, and then Scott rips the second fingernail out.

John screams.

His body twists in the chair, arching up and writhing against the bonds. He forgets about Sherlock, forgets about Moriarty. He loses everything in his head that isn’t the sheer white reality of pain. His eyes screw shut. Distantly, he can hear himself continue screaming, on and on, like it will never stop.

He can hear Scott shout, “Fuck-!” and a low animal snarl that must have come from Sherlock, although it doesn’t sound much like him. As John’s lungs empty the tension leaves his body and he slumps back into the chair. He concentrates on breathing – each shuddering lungful like a balm, cool and clean. His hand feels overlarge and unreal, like Scott’s torn all his fingers away and his palm has swelled to compensate.

He fights the urge to use his next breath to continue screaming.

There’s a neat, loud snap.

John keeps his eyes closed tight. His body twitches randomly, spasms of pain drifting down his nerve endings. It’s quiet, now. The workers have fled, and if Sherlock came into the room the two guards must be dispatched.

There’s a moment of silence, then hands fumble at his face, tilt it upwards. Funny. John hadn’t realized he’d let his head fall.

“John. _John._ ”

John takes yet another deep breath and opens his eyes. Sherlock’s eyes search his, dark with worry. John smiles weakly, hoping for reassuring but not expecting to manage it. “That was a bit not good, eh?”

Sherlock sighs, in relief or frustration. It’s entirely unclear which. He grabs the discarded pliers without a thought to their grisly job and starts bending the chains away from John’s wrists to free him. “You shouldn’t have been here at all. What in the _world_ did you think you were doing?”

“I - em - followed you.”

Sherlock’s hands still, briefly. “I'm sorry?”

“I heard Jim give you a job,” John says. Sherlock gets back to work. “I thought you could use someone to watch your back. Suppose I was a bit rubbish at it...” As the chains clatter to the floor, his hands slump down into his lap.  Sherlock grips his shoulder, offering a hard and dispassionate support.

_But it is a support, isn’t it?_

John is grateful.

“You ruined the entire operation. Completely useless as a bodyguard, in fact,” Sherlock complains. His voice is so tight John knows the irritation is just a way to cover concern. “You’re lucky Jim would have wanted Scott killed anyways.”

A moment of blank surprise. John blinks at Sherlock. “He's dead?”

“I killed him.”

\---------------

*♤♤♤♤*

Jim’s hand is tangled in Sebastian’s hair when Sherlock and John arrive back from their little trip. It's getting long, each strand like a bending blade of straw between Jim’s fingers. Did it used to be soft? Jim can’t remember.

_Ah well._

_We’ll have to have it cut either way, darling._

_Your straight razor or mine?_

When Sebastian looks up at Sherlock from Jim’s feet, the motion of his head tugs Jim’s fingers back just a little. “Job's done?” he says, in that brusque voice that means _business._

“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock mutters back. He avoids Jim’s eyes, and there’s a bruise on his chin.

_Ooooh._

“What did you do wrong _now_?” Jim asks Sherlock, all soft except for the last word to make him jump.

“He didn't do anything wrong,” John interrupts, before Sherlock can reply. Jim’s fingers tighten on Sebastian’s hair in irritation. Enough to hurt, but Seb won’t complain. “I, ahm, got in the way.”

“Oh?” From the tone of Seb’s voice, he’s smiling. Jim has to admit, there’s something just so _sexy_ about Sebastian playing cat to John’s mouse.

“I killed Scott,” Sherlock snaps, cutting through Jim’s amusement. He finally bothers to look up. His chin raised defiantly, cheekbones catching light and shadow, curls weighed down with what must be sweat. _Oh, baby._ Jim feels the beginnings of a grin, watching the bruises move as Sherlock’s jaw tightens. “I don't regret it.”

Seb’s muscles tense and he starts to stand. Jim yanks his hair as a warning. A few stray blonde hairs come loose in Jim’s fist.

_Down, boy._

“I was going to have him killed anyway, don’t fret,” Jim keeps his eyes locked on Sherlock’s. The addict’s been careful lately, but there are always one or two things to be learned from his face if you’re clever enough to watch close. “All I need is for you to tell me _why_ he had to be –“ Jim points two fingers at his temple and snaps them back illustratively.

“I got into a tight spot and Sherlock saved me,” John replies promptly. Ever the good little puppy.

_I’m almost sorry mine didn’t come home with an obedience complex like that._

Jim pulls Sebastian’s hair again, affectionately.

_Almost._

It earns him a growl from Sebastian, but Jim ignores it. “Not as sociopathic as you thought, Sherly? Or just couldn't finish the job without making a _mess_?” He doesn’t bother looking at John, just grins at Sherlock. The pleasure in his voice will unnerve the taller man, and every advantage on _that_ playing field is worth having.

“There was no other alternative. We wouldn't have made it out if he’d lived.”

_Oh, **really.**_

There are times when Jim wants to kiss Seb bloody for being clever. Those brilliant moments of insight that make Jim wonder just how far Seb could have gotten if he’d _tried_ in school.

“You could have made it out,” Sebastian says in an insulting tone of voice that plays just _perfect_ into Jim’s head-game with Sherlock. “Just without your pet mouse.”

“Oi!”

 _Now don’t take offence, Johnny-boy, it’s not_ really _about you._

“He's not a pet. And I, unlike _you_ , never do things without good reason.”

_Oooops. Now you’ve done it, Sherly._

Jim lets Sebastian go and almost in the same instant Seb unfolds from his position at Jim’s feet and shoves his way into Sherlock’s face. The synchronicity of the moment feels like telepathy, like Sebastian knows exactly what role Jim wants him to play.

Jim feels another surge of manic affection for his perfect little playmate as Sebastian snaps, “Are you _covering_ something, beanpole?”

Sherlock straights himself to his full height and toes off against Sebastian like a chess-move. Jim watches it happen and knows what’s coming next. He can see their reactions in the future like they’re all happening simultaneously, and it’s dizzying. “I have nothing to hide, _kitten_.”

“If you have nothing to hide, why don't you _stop lying_?” Another step forward, Queen-to-E-4 and they’re of a height and Jim can hardly breathe with the sheer inevitability of it all.

“Stop it –“ John protests, weak and distant, not even _watching_ the game. “ _Stop_ it - he just _helped_ me –“

“I haven't uttered a _single_ lie, Moran. It isn't my fault you're too _ordinary_ to tell the difference.”

“You think you can hide shit from me because you're a genius. You killed someone today. You’re _lucky_ he was marked for it. How much is this little rat having an effect on you? How much _exactly_ are you going to ignore Jim’s instructions?”

A note of discord, that. Jim frowns and shifts on the couch.

**_Wrong,_ ** _Sebby. That’s not in the rules at all._

_Sherlock can’t **leave** , we’ve been over this._

_And you were doing so well…_

“You're imagining scenarios that are impossible simply because you wish the same weakness upon me that you have for Jim. Face it. You're weak, and you won't drag me down with you no matter how badly you _want_.”

“ _Answer my fucking question_.”

“ _You don't have control over me!_ ”

Jim considers his options and heaves a sigh. It was all going so perfectly and then Sebastian had to _fuck it up_. Now his only option is to get between them. That will mean choosing _sides_ , and there’s a _balance_ to controlling Sherlock, and he wasn’t ready to get _involved_ yet. Sebastian is going to _hurt_ for this one.

“Alright, leave off!” The words snap like the air like lightning.

Jim’s eyes widen.

There’s a crack in the chess board and a piece appears that wasn’t there a moment ago. John is between Sebastian and Sherlock, like some daemon of protection, shoving Sebastian backwards.

Sebastian stumbles.

Jim can’t see his expression, but it must be shocked. He’s frozen, facing John. John glares back, body blocking Sebastian off from Sherlock.  Sherlock, for once, looks too startled to speak.

_Huh._

_Interesting._

Jim blinks a few times, fighting to be the first to recover. He forces his eyes and mouth comically round to cover the real surprise and chirps, “Well, well, Johnny-boy. I think you’ve made your point.” Sebastian says nothing. For once, Jim has to wonder what he’s thinking. The feeling isn’t comfortable.

“If we're done here –“ John growls, and Jim waves airily to dismiss him.

_I need time to think anyways._

As John and Sherlock disappear upstairs, Jim starts to giggle.

_Something new and something not boring at all._

_Johnny-boy, I could kiss you._

“The iceman is melting,” he quips, as Sebastian turns. He’s sure Sebastian will share in the excitement. But Sebastian’s face is set, and closed off, and he stares down at Jim like something _bad_ is happening.

 _“_ I sincerely hope not.”

Jim frowns. _Not what I wanted from you._ “Why are you so grumpy?”

“If you’re losing your control of Sherlock –“

_Oh. Jealous._

_I thought we dealt with this._

_BOOOoring._

“I’m _not_.”

“Jim –“

Sebastian steps forward, hand held out to Jim like a supplication. Jim ignores it, blowing past him towards the kitchen with a snarled, _“Leave it.”_

And for once, miraculously, Sebastian does as he’s told.


	9. We've Gone Too Far: The End (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Sebastian come to climax, and then so does the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! Wow, thanks for sticking with it guys!!! I mean, like, wow. /Wow./ It's been a long one.
> 
> We're almost there. More notes will be posted with the final chapter and epilogue (which should go up before the end of October). Love you all and appreciate all the support.
> 
> Please, please, comment, kudo, ...whatever. Love the feedback. (Also for those people who write reviews or ficrecs, y'all can have my firstborn children because that shit is seriously like MY FAVORITE THING OH MY GOD)

As happens so often with endings, Sebastian doesn’t know it’s the last time.

 _It_ is a foggy Tuesday with nothing remarkable about it, except that Jim has slept in later than Sebastian for once and the house is completely quiet outside their bedroom. When Sebastian comes awake he stays frozen still, unwilling to disturb the moment. He traces with possessive appreciation the curve of Jim’s eyelashes against the smooth skin of his cheek. With each soft breath, the blankets move on Jim’s narrow shoulders. His fingers twitch, hands curled loosely between them on the bed.

He’s smiling, just slightly, and Sebastian wonders what he’s thinking; what madcap plan he’s dreaming up that will bring them home bloody and exhilarated. That smile makes Seb think of Jim fresh off the end of a job, high on the danger and power of it all, reaching out with triumphant bloodlust. That smile makes Sebastian _crave_ –Jim with his finger on a trigger, Jim in the car with his sunglasses sliding down his nose, Jim at the breakfast table killing heads of state.

Sebastian Moran is twenty-four years old. He has had eight years with Jim Moriarty, five of which they spent apart.

It’s still more than some people get.

He doesn’t bother with pillow talk, or sweet kisses against Jim’s manicured fingernails. Instead, he slides out of bed, quiet and slow. Jim stirs, but he doesn’t wake. Sebastian folds the blankets away with painstaking care, disturbing Jim as little as possible. The cool air of the bedroom raises goose bumps on Jim’s bare skin and he curls forward from his side into the mattress, seeking his own body heat.

Sebastian’s hand slides over the prickly skin, up Jim’s thigh. The contact brings Jim half-awake, grumbling death threats and rubbing the back of his wrist against his eye. Sebastian pushes at him gently, shoving Jim onto his back. His knees fall open, and Sebastian settles between them.

Jim makes a sleepy noise of complaint, still more asleep than awake.

Sebastian kisses his way up Jim’s thigh, starting at the inside of his knee. He doesn’t get very far. His lips are over the end of Jim’s femoral artery, just above the kneecap, when he feels warm fingers thread through his hair.

“I was _sleeping_ , Tiger,” Jim purrs, all velvet danger and sleepy roughness. Sebastian murmurs something indistinct against the skin of his thigh, and moves further upwards. At the next press of his lips, Jim’s hand fists tight in Sebastian’s hair. “Ah ah ah.” Sebastian can hear the smirk in Jim’s voice, and it’s an irresistible challenge. He pulls against Jim’s grip, mouth moving opposite to the flow of blood under Jim’s skin.

Disobedience is an adrenaline rush like a suicide mission, and Sebastian savours the way it floods through his veins.

Jim wrenches him forward sharply, dragging him bodily upwards until Sebastian is half-braced, half-collapsed on Jim’s chest. Their bodies press tight together. Despite his supposed anger, Jim is half-hard already.

“ _Bad_ Kitten,” Jim snarls, before he crushes his mouth savagely down against Sebastian’s.

It’s not a kiss, exactly. Jim bites into Seb’s lip with such jubilant force that blood covers both their tongues, thick and heady. Sebastian curses. Jim laughs.  When he smiles, his teeth are stained red on the edges.

_Like Ba’al devouring souls, like a nightmare, like the devil’s own advertisement for sin._

_Unstoppable and deadly. And_ mine.

Sebastian groans.Jim’s blood-stained grin gets wider. One of his hands flattens on the small of Sebastian’s back. “Insolent of you, waking me up,” he purrs. “I’m still your _boss._ Even when I let you sleep in my bed. I’m going to have to punish you, _darling._ ”

He shoves Sebastian off of him without further warning. Sebastian tumbles sideways on the mattress, and then there’s a warm foot in the vulnerable flesh of his side that kicks him the rest of the way to the floor. He curls over to protect himself, rolling and ending up in a low crouch.

_Fuck._

_Not exactly what I expected to –_

Jim slides off after him in one graceful movement. The blankets spill to the floor in the wake of his quick steps to Sebastian.

**_Oh._ **

“Knees,” Jim commands, naked, aroused, eyes blown and lips bloodstained. Sebastian does not hesitate. Jim wraps his fist back in Sebastian’s hair when the taller man is settled. He holds the eye contact between them like a hypnotist. His gaze seem omniscient, looking through Seb to something deeper than bone. Sebastian swallows, hard, his mouth unthinkably dry. “Open up.”

Sebastian parts his lips and Jim shifts closer, brushing the head of his cock just between them.

_Fuck. Yes._

_I want you to use me._

Sebastian’s mouth drops open a little wider, trying to tempt. Jim smiles that self-satisfied grin that means he knows he’s winning. “Anxious?” he enquires politely, voice sickly-sweet. His hips roll forward and his cock slides into Sebastian’s mouth, achingly slow.

Sebastian moans, disappointed.

_I want it fast._

_I want the violence of it, fuck, please._

_Don’t tease me..._

Sebastian curls his tongue upwards, and Jim takes a sharp hissing breath like a curse. But a low chuckle follows, and he rocks in and out of Sebastian’s mouth by inches.

“Did you want me to fuck your throat, Kitten? _Use_ you, fast and dirty? Were you picturing me _dominating_ you?” The painful grip keeping Sebastian’s head from moving is like a caress. Sebastian makes another noise, muffled, incoherent. “I’ll take that as a _yes._ ”

_Boss, please, fuck –_

A sharp jerk of Jim’s hips and his cock hits the back of Sebastian’s throat with unexpected strength. Sebastian jerks towards him, hungry for the hurt of it. Jim’s hips fuck forward again, skin sliding slick past Sebastian’s lips, forcing the head of his cock deeper down Sebastian’s throat. He’s breathing hard now, audible despite his attempts to stay controlled.

The suddenness of Jim’s savagery makes a hot jag of desire stab downwards in Sebastian’s stomach, and his hands rise to Jim’s thighs – egging Jim on. He opens his eyes and looks upwards, and it nearly whites out his brain. Jim’s bottom lip, caught on his teeth, is slick and shiny with blood. His eyes are lightly closed, twitching behind the lids as his grip loosens in Sebastian’s hair.

Sebastian takes the opportunity to shift forward, tilt his head, and swallow Jim’s cock a fraction deeper.

Seizing control.

“Oh fuck,” Jim gasps, lurching forwards to brace himself on Sebastian’s shoulder. “Don’t stop _that_.”

For all his insubordination, Seb doesn’t dare disobey Jim at a time like this.

He doesn’t stop; he doesn’t even pause. Not until Jim cries out wordlessly, and shudders, and loses himself down Sebastian’s throat.

\-----------------

The rest of the morning passes slow and lazy; Jim even consents to working on his phone after they shower so they can both stay in bed. Sebastian drowses while Jim taps away at his empire; head resting on Seb’s chest like it’s more comfortable than the six hundred dollar pillows he’d insisted on buying.

At ten am Jim says, apropos nothing, “I need to have a chat with Sherlock.”

_About how he killed for that mouse?_

_About how your orders are no longer the most important thing to him?_

But Sebastian doesn’t want to ruin the mood, so rather than blurting out his first reactions he just shrugs and tells Jim, “Whatever you want, Boss.”

They find Sherlock leaning against the cupboards in the kitchen, frowning at a cup of tea. Sebastian’s regular spices are spread out over the counter, as if Sherlock’s been playing with them. Sebastian makes a mental note to get the brown sugar checked for contaminants.

When they walk in, Sherlock’s eyes do the habitual flick-and-slide down Jim, cataloging details. He goes tense. Jim leans on the stove across from him, elbows braced back to make his shoulders smaller, and Sherlock looks like he’s pulled a loaded gun instead. Jim smiles as Sherlock stands up defensively straighter. “You've been so _distant_ lately,” Jim hums. “Now why is that?”

Sebastian watches Sherlock’s eyes dart to him and back to Jim.

_You can taste it like I can taste it, can’t you._

_When he’s angry. When you’ve fucked up._

_When it’s time to pay for your sins…_

“I haven't been distant,” Sherlock replies slowly. He’s being cautious. “I've been busy.”

“Busy with what?” Jim asks. His voice stays civil, almost to the end of his sentence. Almost, but not quite. “Your new _pet_?” The last word is a snap like a guillotine. Sherlock shrinks back.

“John isn’t my –“

Before he can drown Jim in words like he does everyone else, Jim is on him. Leaning forward from the stove, he cuts Sherlock off condescendingly. “That wasn't a no~”

Sherlock leans back as Jim leans forward and Sebastian can see the nervous tension coil tighter around him. “John isn’t taking up my time,” he mutters sullenly. “It's the infernal _errands_ you have me-“

Jim cuts him off again.

_Smart._

_Never giving him a chance to build momentum._

_Doesn’t matter how quick you are if Jim’s always blocking your way._

Sebastian has to hide a grin.

“So you don't appreciate the work I've been so gracious in providing for you?” Sherlock doesn’t respond immediately, looking away, and Jim continues, “I give you a place to stay, _Sherly._ Materials for your science fair projects, food, safety... I take care of everything you need. Even the illegal hungers. It’s always me.”

At this Sherlock glances furtively at Jim – so quick Sebastian almost misses it. He doesn’t exactly know what Sherlock’s looking for – mercy, maybe, or a chance to get a word in. Either way, it sets Sebastian’s teeth on edge seeing Sherlock watch Jim with that amount of careful attention.

_Like it **is** always him. _

_Like he’s the whole world –_

_Or maybe like he’s a difficult problem that needs to be **solved –**_

"But you've been so... surly lately,” Jim says loudly when Sherlock opens his mouth. “Disres _pect_ ful to me when I ask you for help. Protesting, arguing...”

Sherlock’s face screws up and he snaps, “I don't –“ before Jim is on him like a striking snake, stepping forward off the stove to stand nearly on Sherlock’s toes. There’s nothing threatening about the gesture, or his posture, nothing hostile at all except that it’s _Jim_ doing it.

“It’s very _rude_ , Sherlock. You know that I'm the only one who understands you. And you're still so unpleasant.”

Sherlock flinches.

_Ah. There we are._

_Weakspot._

Sebastian bites his lip to keep the grin from his face.

”There isn't a single person on this earth beside me that would EVER put up with you. EVER. I at least can understand you. But you're alone in this world without me.”

“I know...”

There’s a noise in the hallway, almost lost beneath the sound of Sherlock’s voice pitched low in self-loathing. Sebastian looks over, ears perking up.

_What was that?_

“I really should just _throw you out._ But it would only be a matter of time before your little addictions began to _wreck_ you. You have such a pretty mouth,” Jim is leering, and Sebastian would hate it if he wasn’t too focused on a slight shadow cast against the doorframe. “I'd hate to see it dirtied by street dealers' _cocks_ ,” he hears Jim say, but only distantly. “So I can’t just let you off with nothing, can I? Oh _no_. You have to learn _somehow._ ”

There’s a shift of movement outside the door as Jim pulls a syringe from his pocket and Sherlock cowers backwards. Sebastian, knowing how this drama is likely to play out, leaves it behind. He crosses the distance to the door in two steps and slides through in one quick motion.

The effect on John, who’s been spying in the hallway, is devastating. He looks like Moran has appeared from nowhere, and his mouth works in horrified surprise.Moran is quietly _very_ amused.

He slams John back against the wall and slaps a palm over his mouth, muffling John’s yelp of surprise.

“Don’t interfere,” he hisses.

John has the spine to struggle, which surprises Sebastian more than it should. He fights hard for someone his size. In the end Sebastian is stronger. John crumples against the wall without managing to free himself. His eyes spit hatred upwards, and Sebastian beams back at him.

In the kitchen, there’s a gasp of pain from Sherlock, and then the _clink_ of glass against marble countertop. John tenses in Sebastian’s hold, an abortive movement of his body towards Sherlock.

They stay like that for a moment, Sebastian drinking in the frustrated horror of John’s expression over the scarred expanse of his hand. Then he turns his head and calls to the kitchen, “Boss?”

Jim’s voice is soft and pleasant. “Yes?”

“I’ve caught a mouse.”

“Bring him in, Seb, there’s a dear.” Sherlock says something, but it’s slurred and indistinct and from the hallway Sebastian can’t even tell if it was intended to protest or encourage.

He hauls the struggling doctor off the wall and wrenches his arm up behind his back. John fights valiantly, but futilely, and Sebastian maneuvers him through the door into the kitchen where Jim is leant against the counter, empty syringe by his elbow. Jim watches them with raised eyebrows, amused. At his feet Sherlock slumps, slack, head tossed back and eyes glassed over.

Jim’s private store is a higher quality of narcotic than Sherlock is used to.

Bringing John in front-first, of course, meant letting go of his mouth. When he sees Jim, John barks, “That was a load of hogswash,” despite Sebastian’s yank on his arm to convince him to behave.

“Oh? What was?” Jim asks politely, as if they’re not having a conversation over the strung-out body of John’s best friend.

“ _All_ of it,” John snaps back. He tugs defiantly against Sebastian's grip, failing entirely to loosen the hold. “I'd put up with him if he left you. Easily. It'd be a pleasure. If he thinks he’s some sort of weirdo it's because you've been poisoning his mind with that - that _filth_. Sherlock is _brilliant_ and amazing and you're - just damn lucky he goes _slumming_ with you!”

Jim starts to laugh, tossing his head back. It makes Sherlock on the floor shrink smaller, digging his hands into his hair as he had during the gunfight. The abject fear on Sherlock’s part almost makes up for the disrespect in John’s voice. But it’s not enough. Sebastian wrenches John’s arm hard, as punishment, earning a little gasp of pain that is audible only in the short distance between them.

“You're _adorable,_ ” Jim says, when his laughter dies out. “It's so _cute_ that you're defending him. But Sherlock knows better. Do I have to _remind_ you, Johnny boy, that you are every BIT as replaceable as he is?” His voice drops from lilting amusement to his animal snarl. “You should mind your _tongue_ , keep your _place_ , and be grateful I haven't looked too _deeply_ into whatever the two of you are _trying to hide from me._ ”

Whatever survival instinct Sherlock and Sebastian share that makes them get out of the way of Jim’s anger, John doesn’t have it. He straightens as much as he can against Moran, and says – voice shaking only a little – “I'll mind my tongue when you stop feeding him this crap! It's not _true_ , you’re _lying_. As long as you insist upon that sort of - of shite - I'll say whatever I bloody well please!”

_Enough!_

Sebastian snarls and pulls so hard on John’s arm that he can feel the creak and strain of bones about to snap. John grunts in pain, arching back as much as he can against Sebastian’s chest in a vain attempt to take pressure off his joints.

On the floor, Sherlock stirs, like the sound of John in pain has penetrated the haze of Jim’s narcotics. Jim smiles downwards at him fondly before he looks to John again, something deadly and calculating in his eyes.

“Sherly learnt his lesson, Dr. Watson. It's your turn now.” He looks over John’s head at Sebastian and nods, just once. Sebastian knows what that means, even if there’s no accepted signal to pass between them.

_Time to do what I do best._

_\------------_

John struggles in silence the whole way to the basement, mouth set, determined even though there’s no way he’ll free himself. Sebastian enjoys it. Not as much as if it were Jim writhing against him, but the fear and hatred radiating off John is a powerful combination.

And Jim, of course, the eternal presence at his back, the perfect goad for sadism.

In the basement he lets John go and the doctor stumbles, whirling to face them. “You're a pair of fucking psychopaths,” he snaps, shoving his hair into place with both hands, “I don’t care what you to do me. I won’t let you speak to Sherlock like – like he’s some sort of _freak._ ”

Behind Sebastian, Jim’s voice is soft and deep and slow, savouring each word. “I’m not lying, Johnny-boy. Not as long as he believes me.”

“ _Shut –“_

_Don’t talk to him like that. Don’t you **dare.**_

Sebastian lashes out, the heel of his boot landing hard in John’s stomach and sending John stumbling backwards. John doubles over, coughing and wrapping his arms around his torso. Sebastian rushes him, on the weakness in an instant, and as he punches John over his already swelling cheekbone he can hear Jim chuckle and say, “It’s time to start _listening_ now.”

John falls and Sebastian leaps on him – driving him to the floor. It’s like every blow he lands makes him angrier, like kicking John has released some acidic bile into his heart that he’s been holding back for months. He straddles John on the floor and rains down blows until he can hear grunts and gasps of pain and the spatter of blood against the floor.

He loses time.

There’s a bright painful haze that swallows him as John fights wildly beneath him. The doctor is a soldier, after all, and he’s trained to deal with this; hips bucking up, trying by any means to throw Sebastian off.

It makes Sebastian even angrier.

_I’m bigger, stronger, faster. How dare you fight back. Just give up!_

_Stop it! Stop even trying!_

_You won’t win, so why are you still fighting?!_

There’s a crunch of bone shattering and Sebastian can’t tell if it’s John’s face or his knuckles. An indignant shout from the doorway follows, but Sherlock’s words don’t quite cut through the haze.

Finally, Jim’s do.

“Unless you're here for a turn, Sherlock, I’d stay out of the way. Looks like _Sebastian’s_ gone a little _mental._ ”

Sebastian blinks hard to clear his eyes. He’s got one hand wrapped in John’s collar, the other one raised for a blow. It doesn’t look like it’s necessary. John’s face is already a ruin, and Sebastian’s hands are covered in blood.

He looks over his shoulder. Jim isn’t smiling. He’s staring at Sebastian with a thoughtful, cautious expression. Sherlock, pale and leaning on the wall by the door-frame, is obviously finding it difficult to stay conscious with whatever drugs Jim injected still in his system. He looks at Sebastian like Seb is a rabid dog that’s slipped its leash, like he’s in the middle of a nightmare with no hope of waking.

Sebastian feels the appalling weight of both sets of eyes settle on his throat.

“Let him up,” Sherlock slurs, fighting hard to keep his voice steady. He’s more doped-up than Sebastian’s ever seen him before. Whatever Jim fed him, it’s effective. His eyes blink rapidly, and his hands tremble where they’re braced against the wall. “You’ve done _quite_ enough.”

Jim seems to shake himself, returning from his mysterious reverie. He turns to Sherlock with a carefree smile, voice lilting and childish. “But the good doctor’s been naughty, Sherlock. Sebastian had to punish him _._ ” Sebastian can hear the change in his voice coming, now. He knows Jim well enough to anticipate the drop from childish to demonic. “And you’re _questioning me_ again.”

Sebastian heaves himself up, leaving John on the floor, and turns to face them. Sherlock shakes his head, once, twice, then over and over again like he can’t stop – a continuous denial, as Jim smiles at him.

“N-No,” Sherlock says, “You already… what you did to me earlier, that was my…”

Jim just grins wider.

Sebastian feels his expression drop into an impassive mask like all the passion of beating John into the floor is draining out of him at once.  Jim looks manic, excited, anticipating what he’s going to do to Sherlock with the malicious glee he usually reserves –

_For me._

_“No,”_ John coughs behind Sebastian on the floor, trying to stand and failing. Sherlock shrinks back against the wall as Jim reaches for him, eyes widening.

“Please,” Sherlock whispers, eyes flicking back and forth over Jim and the air around him. He’s looking at something much bigger than the slight man in front of him; Sebastian wonders briefly what hallucinations could cause the bob of Sherlock’s Adam’s apple in fear, but that’s not what concerns him.

What concerns Sebastian is mainly the way Jim looks almost _reverent,_ almost _affectionate,_ as he grabs Sherlock’s wrist. “I’m going to hurt you,” he murmurs, “So badly.”

_From him, that is “I love you” –_

_From him that is “I need you” –_

Sebastian wants to open his mouth in protest, but he doesn’t dare. Or maybe it’s time to throw up his hands and admit that Jim is blinded by his fascination with Sherlock.

And he is _fascinated_ , despite all the times he’s claimed otherwise.

Sebastian clenches his fist tight on John Watson’s blood and watches Jim drag Sherlock upstairs, leaving the two soldiers in the basement to endure their separate pains.

\------------

That night there’s a shouting match in Sherlock’s room. John and Sherlock are having something out, and from what Sebastian can hear – well, it’s not much, but the name _Mycroft Holmes_ has come up, and _just leave without me_ and Sebastian knows rebellion when he hears it.

_We went too far, boss, and now it’s coming._

_Whatever **it** is._

Sebastian watches them limp from the house together, getting a clear view out the window of the room he shares with Jim. Sherlock has to lean heavily on John to walk. There’s a burning roil in Sebastian’s gut as his eyes stalk the two of them down the drive; their tender protectiveness is a scalding insult. So is John’s shielding stance at Sherlock’s side.

_That’s my place with Jim._

He thinks of Jim’s hands, usually so pale, fleshed out in contrast to the absolute whiteness of Sherlock’s wrist. The eye contact between them, and how Sherlock had caught his breath in fear. How that had _captivated_ Jim. Sherlock, reflected in those spellbound eyes, had cowered and trembled in abject terror. And Jim had smiled.

Sebastian feels jealousy like a brand laid on his lungs, scorching against the coldness of suspicion. When Jim’s shadow crosses the floor, Sebastian says, “I’m going to kill him,” and he means it.

“You aren't to touch him,” Jim hisses.

“He's a _danger_.”

“You’re _jealous.”_

Sebastian turns from the window. He looks over Jim with blank eyes, giving away nothing. Jim’s in his dark grey suit today, hair brushed back, fingernails neat. He looks good, but then, he always looks good. “Do I need to tell you that it’s Sherlock or me?”

“How _dare_ you make me – ”

 _“_ You trust me to protect you, Jim. I’m telling you now, he’s a threat.” Jim hates being interrupted, but Sebastian can’t bring himself to care. There’s a sort of freedom to it, not caring. Knowing that there are certain things that even for Jim, Sebastian can’t ignore. _His arm around John and your eyes on his face and it’s all part of the same puzzle somehow, I know it. I don’t know how, but I know it’s all connected._ “If I'm alive I'll find some way to kill him. I swear I will. I won't trade your life for _his._ ”

Jim stares back at Sebastian, silent and impassive, and Sebastian wants to say _don’t let me leave you like this,_ but they’ve gone beyond that now. Again. How many fights? How many times have they almost lost each other? Sebastian is tired of it.

_If you want to destroy yourself, then, I can’t stop you._

_But I can hide my head in the sand. I don’t have to watch._

_I can leave you alone with a loaded gun in your mouth…_

“Fine.”

Jim’s voice is so quiet Sebastian doesn’t quite believe he’s spoken at all.

“What?”

“I said, fine,” Jim repeats. He meets Sebastian’s eyes and smiles, looking soft and almost shy. “I’ve gone without you before and it’s not worth it. If you want Sherlock Holmes dead… it happens tonight.”

\---------------


	10. The Great Escape: The End (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of Twist and Growl/Hard Road Home; Sebastian Moran wants Sherlock Holmes dead. Jim Moriarty is finally happy to oblige. The Major Character Death warning finally applies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. The end of Twist and Growl. I’ll do a more thorough thank you at the epilogue, but here I have to give the first round of respects:  
> Mie – [[link]](http://thecandycoatedtrickster.tumblr.com), who is the reason this exists, the voice of Jim, and an infinitely patient beta and co-author.  
> Cia - [[link]](http://sheiksleopardthong.tumblr.com), also patient, also an excellent beta, and endlessly willing to screech and cry about my dumb thing.  
> And, as well, for Chris, [[link]](http://formerlyfortstreet.tumblr.com) who wrote bits and corrected military terminology and gave a generally hilarious hetmale-beta of the porn. And who will always be my personal partner in crime.
> 
>  
> 
> The epilogue will be posted immediately after this chapter. <3

Sherlock’s cold, skeletal fingers clutch John’s wrist and shake him rudely awake. John jolts in his chair and rubs a hand over his bruised face. “Sherlock, what the _bloody hell…_ ”

Sherlock is still in a hospital gown. A thin line of stitches traces down his neck, disappearing under the collar. Moriarty’s handiwork. There’s a butterfly bandage on his cheek and deep, painful bags under his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping well since they left the house, and neither has John. It’s hard to sleep while you’re looking over your shoulder.

“Jim just called,” Sherlock whispers, so no one else in the room can hear. “They're going- no, _Sebastian_ is going to kill us.” John gapes. _What?_ Sherlock’s mouth skews in frustration. “Jim’s finally decided to let him. We have to move. _Quickly._ ”

For all that John has seen this ending as inevitable since the day he walked in the house, the suddenness of Sherlock’s acceptance still puts him off balance. “Wh -  not that I'm - I mean - Jim _told you this?”_

“Of course not,” Sherlock snaps, and then remembers to lower his voice. “Don’t be dull. Sebastian’s been suspicious since I killed Scott, and Jim’s been denying it. He only called to ask where I was, but, you know how he can be – _transparent,_ really.” He pulls John bodily up from the chair. When John’s taken his feet, unsteadily, Sherlock lets go of his wrist and puts a hand on his shoulder to steer him towards the door. The look Sherlock casts at the nurses’ station is anxious and he keeps up a low flow of words under his breath, as if it’s giving him something to concentrate on. “Jim is either unable to refuse his lover for _sentimental reasons_ or Sebastian has convinced him we’re a threat. God knows which, but the result’s the same; Jim’s sided with Sebastian and we need to _run_.”

John is on board with this plan. It’s about damn time they got out of the frying pan. He lets Sherlock guide him firmly through the automatic doors with something like relief. When they’re outside, under the cover of the ambulance stop, Sherlock takes his hand away from John’s shoulder and speeds up, brushing past John towards the bushes on the other side of the parking lot. John catches his sleeve at the elbow.

Sherlock looks back as if John’s done something incomprehensibly stupid. They needed to _run,_ after all.

John grits his teeth. “If we don’t think about this, if we just – bolt, we’re bloody _dead._ He'll find us in hours, no matter how smart you are. We need an out, Sherlock, someone who can help.” Sherlock scrutinizes John’s face, not understanding. “Someone with resources.” The blank look gets a whole lot more hostile as he realizes what John’s driving at. “ _Mycroft_.”

“ _No_.”

“He'd keep us safe. Sherlock, he sent me to you – “

“He'll demand things of me! He’ll put his sticky little fingers in my business the way he does with every other –“

“ _Sherlock!_ ” John cuts him off angrily. When his raised voice echoes off the concrete walls of the hospital, he cringes and manages to get the rest of his reasoning across more quietly. “What’s important right now is survival. I know you have your differences with Mycroft, but now’s not the time to be petty, is it? I have a number. I’ll call. Just give me the nod, and I’ll take care of it. Look, he's our only hope of surviving this.”

On Sherlock’s face, the yellow light of the hospital casts murky shadows. Pride wars with necessity. John sees vanity winning, slow, the set of Sherlock’s mouth into a petulant pout like a child refusing to go to bed.

“I'm not willing to die for your bloody ego!” he snaps, before Sherlock can say anything else.

The hollow of Sherlock’s eyes and the gaunt skin under his cheekbones seem to grow darker until he looks like a skull under the velvet black of his hair. He presses his lips tight together, then turns from John and waves a calculatedly careless hand.

“Fine.”

John is on the phone with Mycroft in minutes.

\-------------

**A Safe-house, Prague, 5:15 AM**

**Two Days Later**

Sebastian raises his hand to fix the position of the radio in his ear. Once it’s secured he checks the tiny patch of flesh-colored tech on his neck; reading the vibrations of his throat and picking up speech quieter than verbal, it’s one of Jim’s latest toys. “Can you hear me?” he subvocalizes.

“Loud and clear, Tiger,” comes the voice in his ear. Jim, distorted by static. “They should be in the front room upstairs. You’re going in the back of the basement. Do you remember the floor plan?”

In front of Sebastian is the door to a squat two-story building in the semi-residential fill outside the city. Shouldering up with apartment complexes and small mechanic’s shops, a casual passer-by would scan from one side of it to the other without detecting anything odd. Of course, all the windows are false and all the cement is reinforced, every inch of it wired and covered in cameras. But a passer-by wouldn’t notice that.  Half a block down the street, a little black van is parked against the curb. Lights off. No one in the driver’s seat.

_Jim in the back with a wall of computers worth more than the house._

_He could hack into the Tower of London with that thing._

_CCTV never stood a chance._

Sebastian checks the safety on his HK416, tugs his balaclava up over his face, and inhales the smell of Jim’s drycleaners. He feels the insane urge to laugh. Of _course_ Jim sent the camo and concealment gear to the drycleaners along with the suits.

“I remember,” Sebastian answers Jim. He swings the assault rifle aside on its strap, letting it dangle against his hip so his hands are free for a matte black knife. _Quieter._ “All you have to worry about is Mycroft. If he's alerted, Jim – “

“He won't be.” Was that distortion, or did Jim sigh? “You just get in and get out, is that understood?”

“Absolutely. Going radio dark now,” he feels a smile twitch on the side of his mouth at the familiar terminology from his days in the war. “See you on the other side.”

No response from Jim.

The backdoor is a broken lock and two hinges removed, no real obstacle at all. For a place like this the mentality is, ‘if they’ve found you, it’s already too late.’ Defenses are perfunctory.

There’s a coat room, dim in the light that reflects down the hall. Sebastian slips through it like a shadow. The first guard comes out of a bathroom zipping up his fly and Sebastian puts the knife through his jugular, pressed close enough that he can catch the man when he falls. Seb eases him down to the floor as he gurgles and spasms and bleeds his way dead. The Kevlar vest hadn’t protected Mycroft’s guard at all but it’s least useful to Moran as a place to clean his knife.

He continues down the hall, assault rifle banging against his hip with each step. “Guard around the next corner, to your right,” Jim says in his ear.

“Thought you were keeping an eye on Mycroft.”

Sebastian loses the knife to the second guard; caught in the bone of his ribs, it sticks there despite Sebastian’s efforts to draw it out. It has Sebastian’s fingerprints on it, but that isn’t going to matter tonight.

It’s dark in the hall. Up ahead, between him and the first staircase, the shadows are only interrupted by a single pool of warm light. It spills into the hall from a small kitchen. Movement and quiet conversation indicate four men playing cards. They’ve got an electric heater going, a soft hum underneath the creaks of their uncomfortable shifting in their chairs.

Sebastian snatches a look at them from the safety of the darkness and judges the odds.

_Not good._

He takes a deep breath, and clicks the safety off his rifle slow and easy so there isn’t a sound.

“Jim,” he subvocalizes, “ _Cut the lights_.”

Sherlock will know he’s coming now, but Sebastian is too close for it to matter. And he’s not going to risk dying in a fight that doesn’t matter. Not when he’s gone through so much, and certainly not at the hands of some faceless lackeys of Mycroft Holmes.

“Blackout in three... two...” Sebastian takes a shallow, steady breath, and tenses. “ _One._ ”

The power goes down in a six block radius.

Somewhere, phones are ringing. Mycroft Holmes is mustering the fury of the British Empire. Sherlock is rising from his chair, grabbing John Watson and tugging him further into the safe house. Somewhere, Jim is juggling a hundred camera feeds, alarms, phone lines, keeping himself and Sebastian safe for just one more precious moment. Outside, the world is huge and complex and, like the web of a spider, one disturbed thread has set it all in motion.

But here the world is simple. Here, in the dark of the hall, with the guards throwing down their card game and reaching for guns, none of that matters. Nothing matters, except that they are hired men, off-guard and ill-prepared, and he is Sebastian Moran.

He rips through them like wind through chaff and leaves them in a pool of blood and casings. They don’t give him a _scratch_.

The stairs Sebastian takes slow, weapon up. It’s only half-way to the top that he remembers to pull his night-vision goggles down over his eyes. He forgets because tonight the dark seems like it welcomes him, wrapping him in protective concealment like an embrace.

The goggles feel alien in comparison. Sebastian has to tug his concealing balaclava down to keep the heat of his breath from fogging them, blowing each exhale down over his chin instead.

“The targets are on the move,” Jim tells him, voice strained. “I repeat: Holmes and Watson are on the move. _Hurry_.”

“Lock down the house,” Seb responds. At the top of the second flight of stairs there’s an open door. He drifts through it, undistinguishable from the dark except for the wink of green light across his goggles. There’s a knocked-over chair in the first room he passes, a cup of tea dripping off a table. Someone stood up in a hurry.

“Ten seconds to lockdown.”

Sebastian steals through the dark, dead house. It’s all quiet, now. The guards are gone. He wonders if, when he finds them, the runaways will be scared. If Sherlock will beg for John’s life.

He’d like that.

“Three... two... one. You’re locked in there, Seb. Have you got them?”

“Not yet.” In the still surreality of the house Jim’s voice seems like a hallucination. Seb imagines them pacing down the hall together, side by side, Jim no more than a specter. He glances into each room and is unsurprised to see them all empty. At the end of the hall there’s a bedroom, and Sebastian knows without knowing how that _they’ll_ be in there.

Together, of course. Always together.

Faintly, he can start to hear the sound of an incoming helicopter. Unwelcome, in the still and the dark. Dangerous. “That helicopter’s trouble,” he tells Jim, licking his lips to moisten them. He tries to shake himself out of the dissassociative quality of his thoughts, but can’t entirely succeed. “Don’t hold any longer than three more minutes. I want you out of the area long before Holmes gets here in force.”

“I’m not leaving unless you're with me,” Jim responds stubbornly.

Outside the helicopter pulls in low enough to disgorge a squad of armored men to the pavement. They flood in the first floor, securing it as they go. Jim’s three minutes will be up by the time they secure the stairwell, and Jim and Sebastian both know it. When they reach the kitchen, stepping over the bodies of their fallen comrades, Jim giggles nervously. In their full Kevlar and riot gear, the sound of their footsteps is exaggerated into thunder-booms.

“It’s alright,” Sebastian tells Jim when he’s outside the bedroom at the end of the hall. “Get moving. I'm right behind you.”

The private room is just as still and noiseless as the hallway had been, painted an eerie green in Seb’s night vision goggles. The door of the closet hangs just slightly ajar. Sebastian keeps his gun up, stepping slow into the room. He places each foot carefully, meticulously. It slows him down, but under his cautious tread the floorboards make no sound.

“I see them,” Jim’s nervous phantom hisses in his ear. “Sebastian, you have to get out of there. We’ll have _other chances –_ ”

He’s ignored. The world seems to narrow as Sebastian heads for that slightly-open closet door. He switches the HK to one hand. In the green-tinted silence he watches the rise of his glove, reaching for the door handle, so achingly slow that not even the fabric of his clothing gives away his motion.  

“Sebastian! I'm calling off the mission. _Get your sorry ass out of there!!!”_

The door pulls the rest of the way open and Sebastian’s face splits into a death’s-head grin.

Sherlock is huddled, nearly fetal, in the corner of the closet. He’s half-concealed behind a row of flak jackets, eyes peering blindly up into the dark. If he could see, he’d be looking straight down the barrel of the gun. Sebastian sights between his eyes.

For a moment he’s disappointed, that the junkie won’t know who’s bested him. But even as his finger tightens on the trigger, a sweeping light from the helicopter outside sends a tongue of light down the rifle. Sherlock’s eyes go wide and he jerks, starting to rise, nowhere near fast enough.

_I’ve got you now, you arrogant interfering fuck –_

_I’ve got you now, and now we’re safe, and now –_

The gunshot is so loud Sebastian thinks, for a wild spinning instant, that the building has gone up in one of Jim’s explosions.

\----------

“Seb…?”

\----------

Sebastian has his gun on Sherlock and there’s no time to think, no time to hesitate. So John doesn’t do anything but pull the trigger.

Twice.

The first bullet takes Sebastian in the chest and the second in the head, and he tumbles over sideways so easily it seems like cheating.

As he dies his finger tightens on the trigger and the room is lit again by muzzle flash, bright as a storm. Sherlock’s terrified eyes are visible in the closet like a deer in headlights.

_If it hadn’t been for the light outside –_

_Oh god, he was so quiet, like a ghost, like a damn ghost –_

\----------

“GET UP, _GET UP_ YOU HAVE TO GET _OUT_ SEB WHAT ARE YOU DOING-“

\----------

John scrambles out from under the bed and through the spreading pool of blood to Sherlock. After the brilliant light of gunfire, it seems impossible that they’ll see anything, ever again. Sherlock clutches at his sleeves, panting, and John hauls him out of the closet. They lean against each other, breathing hard, and if either of them trembles the other will never say. There’s screaming audible, distorted and staticy. Sebastian’s earpiece fell loose when his head snapped back and it’s rolled providentially just out of the puddle of copper-scented darkness on the floor.

“Sherlock,” John gasps, finally, and Sherlock (with a death grip on John’s jumper) tells him,

“It’s fine, John. It’s all fine.”

\-----------

“Sebastian! Answer me! Put your goddamn earpiece BACK IN AND ANSWER ME THIS _INSTANT,_ I'M NOT _FUCKING AROUND!_ – S-seb...”

\------------

After that everything seems to wrap up rather neatly. Mycroft’s men swarm into the room, flashlights tracing the two men on the floor, and John and Sherlock quickly pull apart. They’re ushered downstairs and out of the building, leaving Sebastian Moran for the morticians.

More of Mycroft’s men are in a tight circle, shielding from view whoever they’re hauling out of the small surveillance van down the road. They can’t quite block from earshot high, animal screams.

Mycroft Holmes himself is waiting not far from the exit, leaning slightly on his umbrella – quite obviously, he needs the support it affords. 

John tells him flatly that Moran is dead, and Mycroft nods.

“ ...Jim?” Sherlock asks, the only word he’s spoken since he told John it was fine.

“He's being taken into custody,” Mycroft says. There’s a brief flash of worry and doubt across Sherlock’s face. He hides it well. Mycroft watches his expression with polite, detached concern. It seems hard to believe that Mycroft started all this in motion, five short years ago. He seems so little affected by it.

Sherlock makes up his mind, in that moment of silence. He turns towards the soldiers surrounding the surveillance van.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says softly. A motion of his head summons two men to Sherlock’s side to stop him.

“Let me _go_ ,” Sherlock snarls, his face contorting quickly into a rictus of rage.

“Only with Doctor Watson to Scotland Yard.”

“ _No_! I need-“

“It’s been a long night. We’re all tired. You need to _rest._ ” Mycroft watches his brother with something like regret. Sherlock’s expression of rage and confusion seems to soften something in him. “You can speak with Moriarty once he's been processed,” he says, not unkindly.

“He won't _last_ that long!” Sherlock insists.

“I assure you,” Mycroft’s umbrella taps his leg. “He will.” The sentence is ominous in ways John can’t articulate.

“I need-!” Sherlock tries to push past the Kevlar-covered guards, but it’s to no avail and whoever was screaming has been quieted. Distantly, John can see the soldiers carrying a small, wiry body to the helicopter. Jim is limp in their arms, and pale as a corpse even though John knows that he won’t be allowed to die.

“Nothing you could say to Moriarty is this urgent, Sherlock,” Mycroft frowns.

John wonders if he understands yet, how Jim had been. Twisted and fascinating. How Jim had taunted, _you’re alone in this world without me_ , and Sherlock had said, helplessly, _I know._

_Does Mycroft know what Sherlock lost tonight?_

“Don't make me have you arrested for aiding and abetting his crimes.”

Sherlock opens his mouth and John can almost hear him insisting, _I did aid and abet his crimes._

Mycroft is right. John is tired. They’re all tired, except for Moran, who is dead. He steps forward and lays his hand on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock starts, as if he’d forgotten John was there.

“Don't,” John says, “Sherlock, don't.”

Sherlock, mercifully, nods.

\--------------

In the cab, John is the first to bring up the future. Until now, there hadn’t really seemed to be a future. Any future John had seen before now had featured Jim Moriarty, looming over them larger than life: pulling all the strings and making escape impossible. “And - us, Sherlock. What are we going to do?”

“I don't know. I don't... have a plan.”

“Will we stay living together?” Sherlock’s head jerks up and swivels to John. John feels the familiar weight of being the sole focus of a genius. It seems comforting, this time. A reminder that if anyone can figure this mess out, it’s Sherlock Holmes.

“You'd want to?” Sherlock sounds incredulous.

“I told you I wanted to stay with you,” John looks over, and smiles at Sherlock’s stunned expression. “Whatever that ah, ends up meaning.”

“But people don't _like_ me.”

John laughs in surprise. “Have you not been paying attention?” He waves his hand in Sherlock’s face, the one Scott mutilated. Still bandaged, even though it feels like forever ago they’d be caught on that warehouse floor. “I lost two fingernails for you, you git.”

“...Oh,” Sherlock says, shocked into relative speechlessness.

“I wondered if you remembered.” John’s voice is dry underneath his sarcastic grin. Sherlock looks away, apologetic. John feels a stab of guilt. That wasn’t what he wanted. He leans over and puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I'd like to try, at least. If I don't get sent back to Afghanistan.”

Sherlock sniffs. “If you get sent to Afghanistan before we find a flat together, I will personally throw Mycroft in the Thames.”

And just like that, apparently, it’s settled. The course of their lives: a flat, together; friendly animosity with Mycroft; and the endless work of dismantling Jim Moriarty’s empire of crime.

As always, Sherlock had been right.

It _was_ all fine.


	11. The Hard Road Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue, pure and simple. Wrapping up loose ends. I'm sorry about the feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter had my major thank yous; I’m just going to post a few extras here. As well, in my notes at the bottom, a companion piece.  
> Sebastian in this story is – and parts of Jim are – more or less based on a real person. They’ve given their thoughts on Seb’s nightmare to me and the response is so wonderful I have to post it in full. That’s at the bottom.  
> So! Final thanks:  
> [ NailBunny, ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NailBunny),[ KiwiNiki, ](archiveofourown.org/users/KiwiNiki). Rachel - [CaptainQueeg,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainQueeg) and all the other commenters - those mentioned are mentioned specifically because their comments motivated me to actually finish some tough chapters, haha. I don’t know if it’s kosher to thank commenters by name, but, they made chapters happen. So. And comments were one of my favorite parts about writing T&G. So thanks. I’m so glad all of you enjoyed it. I don’t know if I’ll ever write something like this again, but there’ll probably some sporadic smaller things from me in the future.
> 
> If you have any thoughts - anything - I'd love to hear as many of them as possible. This thing has been a huge effort and I'm really interested in how it made you feel, what your favorite parts were... the usual. Thanks for sticking with me.  
> Kiss<3

There are just two things Sherlock has to do before he can relax entirely into the pattern of his new life in Baker Street.

The first, he does with John’s help; to his surprise, he finds it to be a bitter-sweet pleasure. The second he does alone, and it aches like the hole left behind a pulled tooth.

\-----------

First, the open wound of Sherlock’s relationship with Mycroft has to be bandaged. Sherlock takes John for tea at his ancestral home, an ivy-covered building with a long rose-gravel drive. It’s older than several modern nations and Sherlock had thought it the most oppressive place in the world when he was a teenager.

Now when looks at the windows and sees elegant trim instead of gun turrets he wonders why he ever thought it was a prison.

After tea Sherlock leaves John inside and goes for a short walk out in the gardens. He hasn’t been to the house in years and as he makes his way slowly down the lush green avenues he marks the changes of the grounds with cautious pleasure. Some things, insignificant, can be attributed to the seasons. Other subtler things are more permanently altered.

Mycroft is on the patio, fussing over a tablet with his feet up on a deck chair. When Sherlock bends to run the dark earth of the flowerbeds through his fingers, Mycroft tells him, “They changed the soil mixture eight months ago.”

“Ah.” Sherlock dusts off his hands and straightens. “Why? I thought nothing ever changed here.”

“Some things do.”

Mycroft tries to go back to his tablet but it’s evident he can’t focus. Sherlock takes the seat across from him on the patio. After a short silence, he tells Mycroft’s bent head, “I've left John with Mummy. She’s cried something dreadful. He seems more equipped to deal with it.”

Mycroft looks up and makes a face Sherlock can definitely empathize with. Neither of them could ever manage Mummy’s _moods._ “I imagine she would. She's been a wreck since you've come back. Even more so than when you left.”

There’s no accusation in the words, no venom like Mycroft is capable of producing. Sherlock takes that as a good sign. He leans back in his chair and looks out over the thick green grass of the lawns. Cherry trees are just beginning to bloom, and the rains have left everything wet and vitally alive in the dappled sun.

“You hand-picked John to bring me home.”

“That's right.”

“I feel I should resent that.” Sherlock’s eyes are unfocused; he stares off into the middle distance, oblivious of the pale blossoms swaying in the wind. “But I find I can't manage.”

The tablet lays forgotten in Mycroft’s lap. “How long have you known?”

“Since the day he arrived.” Sherlock’s lips twitch in what could be a smile. “He's a terrible liar.”

“He won the job for things other than his ability to dissemble.”

Sherlock continues as if Mycroft hadn’t spoken. Neither of them are terribly good at apologies, and Sherlock is still working up to his. “...Jim never knew, of course. He didn't care enough to pay attention. You're lucky for that. Or perhaps I am. It would have been a great loss if John Watson had been killed.”

Mycroft hums in agreement and there’s a silence. For once, it seems companionable. The two brothers, while they might not see eye to eye, at least find themselves in a comfortable peace.

For Sherlock it’s a luxury just to sit and look at the grass. And Mycroft, after all, had given John to Sherlock. His genuine concern and care can no longer be doubted.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says finally, “For sending him.”

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft replies. Sherlock is relieved to hear sincerity in his voice instead of gloating. “I'm glad the situation resolved itself. Moriarty will stand trial later this year. And then…”

“And then he disappears forever, yes.”

Sherlock tries not to give anything away, but he’s lived with another genius too long to expect his thoughts to stay entirely hidden.

“Will you see him, before the trial?” Mycroft asks softly.

“I suppose I’d better.”

“And John?”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to make a face. “Will despise that I have to go, but he’ll accept it. In time.”

“You’re not afraid of a permanent falling out, then.”

Sherlock thinks of John, steady John, faithful John. “No,” he says with a smile. “I suppose I’m not. He's seen me at my worst often enough.”

“Perhaps one day you'll let him see you at your best.”

“Those days have long since passed, I’m afraid.”

“I think you’ll find, Sherlock, that they may be just beginning.”

Sherlock hums noncommittally. Out in the garden, there’s a buzz of life, the low solid drone of insects and the bright melody of birds. Sherlock watches it all: the sun and the grass and the carefully-planned beauty of the gardens. It makes his heart ache with a warm and unfamiliar affection.

If only to himself, he can admit that a bright future doesn’t seem impossible.

\---------

That rose-garden future seems less clear and achievable as the doors to Jim’s maximum security prison ward clatter open to admit him. The raucous sound of steel-on-steel echoes off concrete walls all the way down the long grey hallway. Sherlock hesitates barely three feet into the row. As the doors shut behind him and the noise of their movement fades, an oppressive and absolute silence takes hold.

Logically, he has no reason to feel afraid.

_Or guilty._

But even Jim’s refusal to appear in the visiting area, forcing Sherlock to come to him, puts the old roles back into place. Sherlock is a supplicant; he’ll make the journey to Jim, step by step down the featureless hall, completely alone. He can’t shake the feeling that this is a pilgrimage.

_To beg forgiveness?_

_Moran was going to kill us._

_Logically I cannot be guilty for John defending me._

Logic and Jim Moriarty have never coexisted peacefully in Sherlock’s observation.

_I have to do this anyways._

He pulls his shoulders back, tosses his hair out of his eyes, and strides down the hall without another pause. There’s a folding chair already set up for him; it sits unoccupied, facing in to Jim Moriarty’s cell. A camera mounted behind the chair, on the ceiling, turns to follow Sherlock’s approach. Mycroft’s watchful eye. Sherlock looks up and nods, and it turns itself quietly off.

He gives himself a moment to steel himself before he looks into the cell, collecting his wits.

The room is six by eight feet, toilet in the corner, hard bunk suspended from the wall. It’s meant for a single occupant and devoid of any materials that could fashion an escape. Hard to imagine, that such a bland and utilitarian room could contain the full force of Jim Moriarty. But there he is, sitting quietly on the bed in his prisoner’s uniform as if he had been only a common criminal.

He stares blankly at Sherlock with wide and vacant eyes. Without asking permission, Sherlock sits. Moriarty continues to stare straight through him at the wall.

It’s a rare opportunity to study Jim while he’s not in frantic motion. Despite the meals that must be provided for him, he’s rail-thin and pale. His prison jumpsuit hangs baggy on his chest, and his collarbones stand out from his shoulders like they’re trying to escape his slender frame entirely.

_It was only ever Sebastian that could convince him to eat._

His hair is messed and patchy from pulling on it, and there are deep bruises under his eyes.

_Only Sebastian could ever convince him to rest._

Sherlock finds it a strange thing to consider; a world in which there will never again be Sebastian to tell Jim to sleep, and eat, and stop obsessing.

Sherlock clears his throat and shifts in his seat.

Still no reaction from Jim.

_This is getting us nowhere._

“Hello,” he finally starts. Jim’s gaze shifts three inches to the left and he studies the wall beside Sherlock’s ear. “I’m here to see how you are,” Sherlock continues, keeping his voice brisk. The words fall flat anyways. Sherlock is unused to caring about people at the best of times and a lie of that magnitude never had a snowball’s chance in hell.

“No,” he amends immediately, “No, I suppose I’m _not_ here to see how you are. I _know_ how you are.”

He pauses. It seems an appropriate place for a retort, but none is forthcoming so Sherlock powers onwards. “John sends his best. His best being mainly death-threats, but there you are. He told me not to come, obviously; he does love to worry about my _getting in trouble_.”

Sherlock waits again for a response, eyes searching Jim for any small detail that would give an indication he was listening. A shift in posture, maybe. A tensing in those gaunt shoulders. But there’s nothing. “ _You_ knew I would come, though. I owe you quite a bit in the end. Not least of which is an explanation of my involvement in Moran’s – ”

Moriarty’s eyes snap into sudden focus, gaze finding Sherlock’s so full of venom and fire that Sherlock physically recoils. Jim’s face pulls into an ugly, twisted grimace and he spits, “Everything that happened. _Everything_. You caused it _all._ ” He leans forward, off the bunk, shaking with the sheer force of his impotent rage. “You _killed_ Sebastian. _My Sebastian!_ I want you to know, Sherlock, everything that happens from now on – it’s because of _you._ It’s all _your fault._ ”

Just as suddenly as it began the madness stops. Jim slumps back in his bunk like a remote-control toy turned off, the rigid tension of anger fleeing him. His eyes go slowly dull again, leaving nothing behind.

The lights have gone out in that great mind.

_I feel almost like I should mourn._

When it becomes clear that whatever spark of life had been left in Moriarty is spent, Sherlock stands and turns for the exit. He doesn’t say goodbye. What’s left in that cell isn’t the Jim he knew.

There’s a slightly ill, nervous apprehension in his stomach, mostly because he’s clever enough to predict what will happen next. Sherlock is one of the few people unsurprised when a day later the newspaper headlines read _Criminal Mastermind Found Dead in his Cell: Police Suspect Suicide._

It is, after all, inevitable.

Summer turns into autumn, the earth orbits the sun, and without Sebastian Moran, Jim Moriarty dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion Piece [Commentary on Seb's nightmare by IRL Seb]
> 
> 'm a hands-on person. I'm a hands-on sort of guy. Type of guy. Sort of man. Sort of fellow. How does Sebastian Moran speak aloud? How does he speak to himself, inside his own skull? I'm a hands-on person. The more visceral sort of people all are, because of the closeness. The nearness. The proximity. Or all of the above. Muscle shifting against bone, under the skin, where it can be felt, read, grasped, affined with by the right sort of person. Like a Vulcan mind meld, but physiological. Not psychological. Flesh to flesh. A love's, or an enemy's.  
> Does Sebastian Moran wear his fingernails long, like I usually prefer to? Or short? Any amateur or professional fighting man might do either; each have their merits, for varying reasons. But it will make a difference as to how Mor' digs his hands into someones cheek.  
> Femurs and pelvises. Mmm. What kind of pressure is happening here? Implements, leverage. What sort of person can break a femur barehanded? Hands-on means up close and personal, but it mightn't be hands. A kick could do it. Or - maybe - a tackle that was lucky. Or very precise.  
> "You think I should be ashamed. I don’t agree. Not on any rational basis. It’s written on my cells." As in, he feels he has no rational basis for shame? It's written on my cells. Engraved, possibly. Part of them.  
> Killing is?  
> Something I do casually. Sebastian catches him at the head of the stairs and he goes down heavy, head cracking against the railing. Like you would sip coffee or turn the page in the newspaper or walk down the street to check the mail. Stop! Seb, get off! ‘Stop’ is an unwelcome interruption. What I was doing was necessary. Sebastian!  
> "Necessary?" From a note about Terry Brooks' Reaper, in one of the Shannara novels. It was a large bastard. Large. Hideously strong. Bipedal. I think it could move like lightning and tear you in half if it wanted to. And it didn't kill because it got a kick out of killing. Although it did get a kick out of it, that wasn't the reason for it. It killed out of the same process that drives an adult housecat, that has left its kitten time long behind itself, to knead its claws into a human's legs while sitting in their lap. The Reaper was driven to killing instinctually. It would have killed even had it loathed the behaviour. It did not feel as though its neurochemistry, its DNA, offered it a hand in the decision, nor even that there was a decision to be made. The Elfstones of Shannara was the bunny, I think. It comes at Wil Ohmsford and his travelling companions across a bridge, after leaving a trail of bodies across the land during its tracking their trail. It was the Dagda Mor's pet reaver. To reave (archaic): to split, to tear, to break apart.  
> I see you've put some of that into the next paragraph. Sick wet crunch. Is it sick? To Moran? (I almost typo'd that as Moron. Oh dear.) Not to Moran. Sick wet crunch. Wouldn't it be more like, juicy wet crunch? Juicy. Or tender, maybe. What would you call it when you crunch a chicken leg bone between your molars and suck out the marrow from between the sharp splinters? Delicious is one word for it.  
> So why did you kill him? In this case there can be no sure answer. He wasn't doing anything wrong. Too much of a good thing can kill you. Oxygen. Glucose. People can even get water poisoning. Maybe an anomaly in the genecode. It's something I'm competent with in the technical sense, which competence is enhanced by the lack of any aversion that would feature, no pun intended, in the execution of most... persons.  
> I don’t know. No more screams. Genecode anomaly. Jim isn’t moving. My primary function. Those luminous eyes gone dark and staring. The glee of evolutionary success. Sebastian, no, please, please.  
> Please.  
> STOP.  
> Sebastian comes awake like a train coming off the rails.


End file.
